Leaf Storm a Tale of Middleearth
by Kida Greenleaf
Summary: A story that was lost and left out of the Red Book: the tale of Legolas and Eowyn. A character sketch, as well as a what-if. UPDATED WITH CHAPTER 19: The Paths of the Dead are opening.
1. The Prologue and Chapter I

Leaf Storm  
  
A Tale of Middle-earth  
  
* * *  
  
DISCLAIMER: Legolas Greenleaf, Lady Eowyn, Gandalf, Thranduil, Aragorn, etc. are all creations of Prof. J.R.R. Tolkien. It seems odd to claim credit for other characters I have created, having formed their names and identities from his invented languages and cultures, so they, too, I dedicate to him. This story was written solely out of the author's enjoyment of the books and is in no way intended for profit, nor as an infringement upon international copyright laws.  
  
A NOTE ON THE STORY:  
  
This is the story of "The Lord of the Rings," told (for the most part) from the view of a supporting character, and it reveals that this seemingly small role actually played a vital part in the Destruction of the Ring of Power. It's a long (and so far, unfinished) piece that falls into the romance, drama, action, and angst genres, though there are certainly some comedic moments thrown in. This could be seen as an AU (alternate universe) story as I have made minor changes to the original plot of The Lord of the Rings. Mostly I've filled in blank spaces that Tolkien never wrote about.  
  
Almost all of my stories are related to one another, and thus I make references to them. I recommend reading "Fire and Ice" before reading "Leaf Storm." It describes events from J.R.R. Tolkien's "The Hobbit" as seen from Legolas' point of view (it is not completed yet, and at five chapters so far, a quick read). It would be useful, but certainly not necessary.  
  
Originally I had many moments in my story "scored," but I have removed the scoring because it was rather distracting. I may post a scored version of "Leaf Storm" at a later date.  
  
Like I said, this is indeed a long story. It begins with Gollum's captivity in Mirkwood (when the uneasy peace the Wood-Elves had was broken) and ends with the last Elven ship to depart Middle-earth.  
  
* * *  
  
Waters on a starry night  
  
Are beautiful and fair;  
  
The sunshine is a glorious birth;  
  
But yet I know, where'er I go,  
  
That there hath past away a glory from the earth.  
  
-William Wordsworth, "Ode: Intimations of Immortality from  
Recollections of Early Childhood"  
  
* * *  
  
The Prologue  
  
"History became legend, legend became myth, and some things that should not have been forgotten were lost."  
  
Thus spoke a whisper from across the Sea, a voice of one who was not born to die, to any who would listen.  
  
"In the light of the events that blossomed around them, the tale of the secret love between Legolas Greenleaf of the Eldar and Eowyn of the Rohirrim was indeed lost. Many of the stories of that time were forgotten. The Fall of the Shadow was the turning point of an Age and all were swept up in it. Still, their story is one of great beauty and sadness, of serene joy and the lowest depths of sorrow-for in this tale, the fates of Men and Elves are entwined. Though these races were meant to be sundered from one another, too often did they feel drawn together.  
  
"This tale begins with a Prince not born to die, who was young to his immortal people, and who would unknowingly become a vital part of the plan to save his world. This is also the story of a woman of noble birth who defeated the curses of her forefathers to achieve what no man could. In their struggles, they were drawn together, and many evils meant to separate them.  
  
"Our story begins in Mirkwood, a forest once known as Greenwood the Great, but a place that has slowly fermented into a shadowy land of unkempt hostility and savage danger. Yet upon its eastern edge, the People of the Stars still reigned, beautiful and sad. One among them, their youngest child, was out alone (though he was forbidden to do so). He did not know that with the arrival of an old friend, his life was about to change forever."  
  
* * *  
  
Book One: The Old World  
  
* * *  
  
Chapter I - The Capture of Gollum  
  
The stag's head was bent down, curving his sleek body from torso to fur-dusted jaw line. The lovely branching antlers rose a few inches above the ground, and one was partly broken-more like a proud warrior's battle scar than a flaw. He was quietly making a feast out of the wet moss that grew in colonies about the roots of the Mirkwood trees. The white sunlight of the Outside dappled his glossy, sable coat. A bird cried out, and the stag's shoulders tensed briefly. The glassy eyes blinked. He continued to eat.  
  
Silently, the arrow was fitted to the string. Strong fingers curved around the base of the shaft, slowly, measured, balanced. The arrow was pulled back. No sound issued from the Elven-spun cord of the bow. Its flexible wood did not creak: the skilled hands that had crafted the bow had conditioned it for stealth and silence befitting an Elven prince. Though the realm of Mirkwood was always alive and moving with many forms of life, the archer did not breathe.  
  
The stag moved on to the next patch of moss, slightly lifting his crowned head.  
  
The archer pulled his right arm back. His left arm he straightened, locking the elbow. In moments the arrow would surge from the bow and thud into the deer's side, between the third and fourth rib, puncturing most of the stag's lung, nicking the left atrium of the warm heart, ending life in a matter of seconds: virtually painless but lethally precise. The woods went silent. The trees did not move.  
  
A cry, shrill and piercing, rang through the clearing.  
  
The sound erupted like the breaking of many glasses, and the archer's heart leapt within his chest. The stag swung his head up. His eye caught the glint of the lighted arrowhead. In a moment he saw the Elf crouched a few meters away. Familiar signs went to his darkened mind: sharp, blood, enemy, death, run, run, run! The archer rose to his feet, his own pulse aflutter from the bloodcurdling sound. He was defeated; the stag disappeared in an earthy-hued flash. A flock of sparrows flew up as it bounded away toward deeper shadows. The woods exhaled, still reeling from the scream.  
  
"Again," Legolas sighed. But he did not replace the arrow in his quiver. The scream had warned him against such. "Eventually I shall have him," he thought, fingering the end of the arrowhead tentatively. "One day the Stag will be mine." Now he focused his thought on the source of the sound.  
  
Indeed, a clamor was coming closer. Extremely close. Fifty yards away. He thought he could hear quiet footfalls, firm and steady-and the rushed padding of bare feet? A whimpering sound, like a punished hound after a beating from its master. Legolas swiftly turned to face the noise. Through the trees he could barely see the flecks of light darting off of a tall figure's cloak.  
  
Birds flew up and away from the walker. Legolas decided to join them, selecting the large, twisting tree to his right. The branches were high, but he was blessed with Elven vitality and was counted strong among his own kind. Gracefully he leapt up to catch the lowest bough and swung up into the greenery above just as the Man entered the tiny clearing. His face was grim and faintly lined, but beautiful and noble. His dark hair was dusted silver at the temples. It was strange to the Elf, the way that it seemed Men changed color as they neared their deaths, like a dying tree.  
  
The Man was not alone. He was dragging a creature along with him whom Legolas at first took to be an ailing, underfed whippet missing its hair. Then he saw that the thing had arms and legs like a human, with a round, bald head and large baleful eyes. It was horrible to look upon, and had an unpleasant, lingering smell. He wondered if the thing had been stricken with that human vulnerability called "disease."  
  
When they had passed his tree, Legolas leapt to the earth behind them, silently landing. Yet even as he did so, the Man swiftly spun around and his emaciated ward let out another screech. The Elf was a bit astounded to have been noticed: no mortal had ever guessed the Prince's coming before. There was a comical split second when the three stood staring at each other.  
  
In an instant, Legolas knew that it was no mere mortal Man who stood before him. The stranger's eyes were a dark gray with a silver sheen, and his face was fairer than that of most Men. There was no apprehension in those eyes: caution, yes, yet a thin film of it compared to the overall impression that Legolas gathered-whoever the Man was, he was ready to spring, a tidal wave frozen at the crest. Then something else dawned upon the Elf.  
  
"A Ranger?" Legolas spoke in Westron, wonder audible in his voice. Slowly, he lowered his bow and tucked his arrow into the quiver at is back. The Man's lance-like Númenorean eyes narrowed, though not out of hostility as much as observation. "Long has it been since the Dunedain have passed through Mirkwood."  
  
The Man seemed to relax a bit, having been received with somewhat friendly words, but the strange creature did not. It crouched behind its master, clinging desperately to his weathered cloak. It cringed when the Man spoke, seeming to be in dread of his voice: "It has been many years, indeed, since I at least have traveled hither. So long in fact, that it is no wonder you do not recognize me, Prince Legolas." He had an accent like an Elf's, so his first language must have been Sindarin. Unusual. Beyond rare, in fact.  
  
Legolas narrowed his eyes, too, and refused to fall into his mother tongue as of yet. His slender fingertips had been resting all this time on the leaf-carved hilt of his hunting knife. "How know you my name, Sir?"  
  
The Man laughed. "Once you knew mine."  
  
Could it be? Legolas' mouth opened slightly, though at first no words issued forth. He found them at last: "*Aragorn*?"  
  
A smile spread across the Ranger's face as his old friend surged forward and flung long arms around him. After a moment Legolas stepped back and grinned, still grasping Aragorn by the shoulders. "Mae govannen! It has indeed been too long. Forgive me: I forget the changes of mortals-so long has it been since you ventured here. Yet you have not changed at all in your stealth and secrecy of manner. What brings you to my Father's kingdom?" He remembered the crouching thing and pointed, amazed. "And what is *that*?"  
  
"Curious, as ever," Aragorn said with an equally jovial grin. "I will answer all your questions in time, yet I have one for you. Why does the crown prince wander the woods alone? Have you not an escort in the outskirts of Mirkwood? These are dark times."  
  
"You sound like my father," Legolas replied with a sad smile. Then he smirked. "An escort! I fear for the Elf set with such a charge as I. Yet Adar would not have me wander the forests alone now that the Shadow draws nigh. I disobey him for my own sake. He prefers the comforts of the palace, and I the company of trees."  
  
"Then you at least have changed little."  
  
"Yes. He seeks to blame my ways on the circumstance of my youth. Besides the Evenstar in Imladris, it seems that I am the lastborn of our people." At the mentioning of Arwen, a shadow seemed to pass over Aragorn's face. *He still loves her* Legolas thought. *Yet I foresee sorrow in the end.* The Elf smiled, laying a hand upon his friend's shoulder, and fell into Sindarin without a second thought.  
  
"Come. You must speak with my father."  
  
* * *  
  
Aragorn and Legolas spoke in their native tongue, exchanging news of their realms-for the prince, it was simply northern Mirkwood and a bit to the east (the Elves had many dealings with Laketown and Erebor), but for the Ranger, it was the entire Outside World. Aragorn explained that the creature he dragged along was Gollum, once a Halfling named Sméagol, who had fallen into shadow after corruption by the One Ring. He spoke in whispers, his eyes shifting to the forms of the sinister Mirkwood trees. Not all trees were allied with the Free Peoples.  
  
The walk back to the Elven city was swift with their talk, and in time they came upon the outer sentinels of Thranduil's realm. They saluted Legolas in the de rigueur manner as any Elf would salute an Elven-prince. When Aragorn's eyes met those of the guards, he felt a strange hostility. Of course he knew the Wood-Elves to be mistrusting folk, but there was a new fear in their eyes.  
  
"Good afternoon, my Prince," came a call from the boughs above. Legolas stopped and shaded his eyes with his long, slender hand, gazing upward. He replied, "And to you, Silindë. Have any messengers arrived at my Father's hall?"  
  
"No. There have been no messengers for three weeks now. May I ask with whom you are traveling? It is not the King's will that strangers should pass through the Gateway."  
  
"No stranger do I bring. Do you remember, many years ago, when the Rangers came to Esgaroth to trade at Midsummer? It was two summers after the fall of the Dragon. I introduced you to one of them, and he has returned. He is Aragorn, son of Arathorn."  
  
Silindë's eyes went wide, and he swiftly returned his bow to its rightful place across his shoulders. "It has been many years since the Dunedain have come to Mirkwood! And now travel is of great risk, alone or otherwise. How came you to Mirkwood unscathed, Aragorn?"  
  
Aragorn smiled, but before he could answer, the prince said, "Aragorn's barely a man. He was raised by Elrond Peredhil and his people, and is more akin to you and I than any other of his kind." He turned to Aragorn with a smile as mischievous as a child's and whispered in a voice as to be barely heard among the rustling branches: "Aragorn Arathornion, eldarion i adanion."  
  
Silindë smiled from above-he had not heard Legolas' low-voiced words. "Indeed. Yet even we cannot travel far outside our realm alone or unarmed. I admire your skill, Aragorn. It is good to see you again." He extended his hand in a graceful sweep. "You may pass."  
  
Legolas, Aragorn and the little gray creature continued onward. The shadowy form of the great palace could be seen through the tree line. They passed several other Wood-Elves who first bowed to their prince, then stared at Gollum. None would come near: Elves had the ability to sense the evil in Gollum like a vapor surrounding him, a blackened aura. The four guards who stood by the pathway leading to the great doors were reluctant to let the sniveling blight inside, but Legolas insisted and they gave way. Some of his folk whispered, in later years, that the ground where Gollum had stepped became sparse of life. No seed would grow in the soil of his footprints. The power of the Ring was present in Mirkwood.  
  
* * *  
  
Outside the main doors to Thranduil's Hall, Legolas paused. He always did. There was something he always found to be absurd about the cavernous palace of Mirkwood. It was positively.....*dwarvish* living in a cave of sorts. How he wished they could live as his cousins in Lorien did, upon the flets set in mallorns, lying beneath the stars at night, basking in the golden light during the day. In his Father's hall, torches and lanterns provided evening light, not stars or moonbeams. Besides, any thing of that sort was absurd in Mirkwood, where Spiders had learned to hunt in packs. The Wood-Elves had not had an outdoor feast since before the death of Smaug.  
  
Aragorn sensed his friend's apprehension, and wondered at its arrival as they had neared Legolas' respected home. "What is it, Legolas?"  
  
Legolas sighed, and raised his arms before the great Gateway-a gigantic masterpiece of Elvish carving, with Dwarven mechanisms worked in. He cleared his mind and breathed slowly, focusing on the silent incantation he had been taught when he was still very young to open the stones and enter the palace.  
  
"Thrond o Eldair, lasto beth nin."  
  
The doors yielded and slowly swung open. Elf, Man and unknown straggler stepped between them, and the slabs of stone closed behind, little grooves upon the edges fitting together to form an impenetrable wall against the dangers of Mirkwood.  
  
Down the winding tunnel they traveled. Torches and golden lanterns lit it, and garlands of fresh leaves lined the high ceiling. At the end were two guards who nodded as they passed, gazing in morbid fascination at what was Gollum.  
  
The tunnel opened up into the beautiful throne room, but his father was not there. Seven long tables were being set up for a banquet, which seemed odd. There was no cause for celebration. Ah, but King Thranduil was a master of distraction. A feast was good to turn the minds of Sylvan Elves from the shadow and the twilight. The sight irked Legolas, who found his father's stubbornness against the end of the Elvish Age to be an obstacle rather than a comfort.  
  
He left Aragorn and his ward in the throne room, with two guards in case the creature became a hazard. Legolas went to the study that overlooked a forest stream, which was where his father could usually be found. This was the room used to discuss matters of state and defense, two things that Legolas abhorred. Still, it had a great library. It was also the room Legolas had used when he took lessons as a child, first learning to write the Tengwar, Angerthas, and how to speak Quenya, Nandorin, Westron and enough Khuzdul to get by when they traded with the Dwarves of the Lonely Mountain.  
  
Thranduil was standing at the great, carved table, which was spread with maps and diagrams of the southern parts of Mirkwood: he was researching the new threat of Dol Guldur, and what would be the safest way to perimeter the area. He was tall, and straight-limbed-traits passed on to his son. His hair fell over his eyes which moved over the contours of the map.  
  
Thranduil did not look up when his son entered. He did let out one long, frustrated sigh.  
  
"Legolas, it is always wise to knock before entering any room."  
  
"Yes, Adar." Legolas smiled.  
  
The Elven-King looked up finally, taking in Legolas' tracking clothes, which were usually a sign that his son had been out alone. He raised an eyebrow at Legolas, looking utterly annoyed. "Well. What is it?"  
  
"Aragorn son of Arathorn has arrived. He brings with him a creature unlike any I have seen, and desires to speak with you regarding it."  
  
"That Man came to Mirkwood alone?" Thranduil raised his brows.  
  
"Amazing, isn't it, that a Man walks through Mirkwood unscathed, and an Elf with years of experience in his homeland behind him is forbidden to do so?" The prince had purposefully narrowed his eyes, arms crossed, cocking an eyebrow back at his father.  
  
Thranduil groaned. "We will discuss this another time. Tell Aragorn I will be with him in a moment. Make sure he is made comfortable."  
  
Legolas nodded brusquely, spun on his heel and left, not caring that the door had "accidentally" slammed behind him.  
  
* * *  
  
"And how is his lordship?"  
  
Legolas wanted to hit Aragorn as hard as he was able for the amusement present in the Man's face. "Leave me alone, Engwaro. *He* certainly does not."  
  
Gollum hissed something in an orc-sounding snarl and swiped at Legolas' legs.  
  
"Ai! What's this?" Legolas stepped back as though he'd been stung. "I do not think he likes me much."  
  
Aragorn jerked on the cord that was looped round Gollum's throat. The creature gurgled in pain. "He likes nothing that is good, be it an Elf or a ray of sunlight. Even the moon and stars seem to annoy him. At night he would whisper things about the menace of 'the great white face,' and shake his fist at the sky."  
  
"Little devil," Legolas laughed. He knelt in front of Gollum who had twisted himself into a fetal position was rolling about side to side. "What do you eat, little one?"  
  
Gollum blinked balefully at the kneeling Elf and said nothing.  
  
"Come now, you must be hungry." Legolas glanced up at Aragorn. "He does eat *something* doesn't he?" He looked at Gollum again, slightly tilting his head to the side. "What do you eat, little one?" he asked in Westron.  
  
Gollum sat up and hissed. Then Legolas realized he was saying a word.  
  
"Fissssshhhh..."  
  
"Fish?"  
  
Gollum hissed again. Legolas took it for, "Yes."  
  
"Well, there you have it." The prince smiled and rose to his feet, motioning to one of the servants who was helping to set up the banquet hall. "Carnil, will you go to the kitchens and see if they have caught any fish today? If they have, I'll need a plate of it brought out here for this one." He turned to Gollum, who was back rolling about on the floor again, and laughed a little. Carnil nodded and went away.  
  
"Mae govannen, Aragorn Arathornion."  
  
King Thranduil had entered the room, a tall, impressive figure. He was truly an Elf of the Old World in appearance, his long, pine green robes sweeping the floor, his hair a dark golden fall, his gray eyes piercing and keen. He was both like and unlike his son. While Legolas and Thranduil were equal in height and had the same eyes, they were very different in essence. Legolas dressed as a scout, and was only marked as a prince by the richness of the bow he carried. But Thranduil was like one of the Maiar, regal and imposing. Aragorn bowed deeply. "My Lord Thranduil. It has been too long."  
  
Immediately, the King turned an interested gaze upon Gollum. "And he is?"  
  
"A little 'gift' from Mithrandir," the Man replied. Both Elven royals looked at him in shock.  
  
"Mithrandir?" Legolas said in an amazed whisper. "He is abroad again?"  
  
"His wanderings never cease," Aragorn said. "Nor shall his labors end, I think. He bade me bring the creature Gollum to your kingdom, knowing that here he was farthest away and safest from The Enemy."  
  
Thranduil raised a hand, confused. "Wait. The Shadow is looking for this Gollum? Why?"  
  
"It is an issue involving Isildur's Bane." Aragorn leaned toward the King and the Prince. "I think it best if Gollum is out of sight and earshot while we discuss his fate. The Ring has made him what he is today."  
  
At the word "Ring" Gollum sat up straight and let out an ear- splitting howl. Everyone in the hall jumped in their skins. He ceased and lunged at Aragorn, who kicked him aside with a weary look on his face.  
  
"I see..." Thranduil grimaced. He called over four guards and bade them to lead Gollum into one of the underground cells. "See to it that he has one that is clean and well lit."  
  
"And have his food sent down to him," Legolas added, as Carnil had reentered the room with a plate of filleted fish freshly caught from the Forest River.  
  
"If I may, my Lord," Aragorn said, "I think it is more to Gollum's liking if he were to have a...well...darker cell. Do you have one? One that perhaps isn't so pleasant?"  
  
"What on Middle-earth for?"  
  
"He is accustomed to such. He has spent nearly five hundred years living in a cave."  
  
"Five hundred years?" Legolas gasped. The creature had looked nothing if not sickly and mortal.  
  
"Indeed. There is much I need to tell you."  
  
Gollum was lead away, and the three retired back into the study to hear in full the account of not one story, but two: of a Halfling named Sméagol, and one named Bilbo Baggins.  
  
-Fin-  
  
Next: Chapter II - The Night Ambush Gollum will have a profound effect upon the fate of a certain Elf-prince.  
  
Please review. 


	2. Chapter II The Night Ambush

Chapter II - The Night Ambush  
  
So it was revealed in full to the Elves of Mirkwood all that could be told on the matter of the rising Shadow and the search for the Ring of Power. Legolas' mind was reeling. It seemed to him that with the coming of Aragorn, the things his father had whispered to him in his youth, the stories of encroaching evils and nameless fears, these things had become real. Glancing out the slender window, the surrounding trees seemed huge and dark, as menacing as the shapeless shadows that lurked between them. And still the world seemed wrought with such myth and wonder! He wanted to dive into the darkness and feel what peril felt like. He was both terrified and completely intrigued.  
He learned, at last, how the Halfling Bilbo had snuck up on the Elven camp before the Battle of Five Armies to deliver the Arkenstone to his father and Bard, now long dead. Legolas sadly recalled the friendship of Bard-but he was a Man, and a Man of common human blood, not granted the Númenorean life of Aragorn or his kin. Now Bard's grandson, Brand, was king of Dale. Brand wasn't like his predecessors, and the brief, happy tie uniting Laketown and Mirkwood had been allowed to fall apart. The days just before, during and after the Battle of Five Armies seemed like ages ago, though other parts in Legolas' life further in the past seemed to have occurred only yesterday.  
He learned of Gollum's torment in Barad-dûr, and he felt himself shudder at the thought of imprisonment there. He learned of the growing strength of the Enemy in the southeast, of the cowardly Men who had turned to join him. Men were multiplying, and their alliances were becoming dangerously unclear. He learned, too, though part of him had already guessed it, that many Elves were leaving, fleeing to the Havens while time allowed it.  
Legolas vowed then, silently to himself, that he would never flee.  
Upon Mithrandir's request, Gollum was to stay in their dungeons, guarded day and night, until his fate could be decided for him. There was still hope for his recovery and return to the Light, though many years and toils it would take. Aragorn explained, "Lord Elrond of Rivendell entreats that you send an envoy to his house in October of next year for a great council. There more will be revealed, and there are things others will wish to hear from you as well." He rose finally, and stretched his arms. "Now I must leave you, King Thranduil. I am needed in the West."  
"Surely you can stay for one night?" Legolas entreated.  
"I insist," added the King. "It is more than impressive that you have traveled thus far through Mirkwood alone, yet the Woods closest to our kingdom are the least safe by night, for there the Spiders gather in wait." Indeed, the sun had set only an hour ago, but it seemed black as night under the branches of the Forest Kingdom.  
Aragorn smiled wearily. "Thank you, my lords. I will stay one night, but by dawn I must leave. My people are roaming near Eriador, having guarded it for the past twenty years. Tell your kin to be wary as they seek the Havens, if they have do so this far to the East. The West is also alive with evil, as it has not been since the Dark Days."  
  
* * *  
  
Thranduil sent two scouts with Aragorn on his way back west toward the Misty Mountains. In a week they reported back. The Elves and the Ranger, unburdened by Gollum, had made the trip swiftly and safely, with just one encounter with the Spiders. There were only two creatures, both easily slain by the three apt warriors.  
Time went by. Aragorn had arrived in early spring, when cold winds still whistled through the trees. Now summer was nearing. The woods smelled alive and fecund. Moss sprouted over the stones and upon the barks of the trees. Near the borders of the land, where sunlight could get in, small flowers had begun to bloom. But the game was less. The hunters returned to the palace with half of what they usually caught during this time of year. Only one thing could be accounted for it: the growing number of Spiders, and of other things too grim to speak of.  
Legolas was forced to practice archery not once but twice each day. He was Mirkwood's best. He always had been, and he knew it. Everyone knew it, save Thranduil it seemed. Sometimes Legolas thought he felt his hands and arms cramp from the extra exertion when at rest. He dared not reveal such to his father: the king would probably suggest more rigorous lessons, to knead the weakness out of his son.  
There was less time for merriment, and little reason to enjoy oneself. Everyone in the kingdom felt the oncoming dark. Messengers from Dale became less and less frequent. Men, it seemed, feared Mirkwood more than the people who actually dwelt there. The Elves had ceased communication with the Dwarves of Erebor altogether.  
Then there was Gollum. The creature fascinated Legolas, and broke his heart, too. From the moment he had met him, Gollum despised the prince-yet he despised everyone in the kingdom, he had despised Aragorn, and, from listening to his nighttime whisperings, Legolas learned he despised himself as well. There was only one thing he clearly loved: the Ring. He did not try to hide it. Once, when Legolas went to visit Gollum in his cell, bringing with him a plate of fish (uncooked, this time: Gollum had refused to eat the stuff Carnil had prepared), he had been deep in a conversation with himself.  
"We wants it, we do. We wants it so badly it burns! It burns, it does, preciousss. Thieving Baggins. But He knows now! He does! He knows! Hee hee hee, stupid hobbitses. Silly Baggins. Baggins doesn't know that He is coming.and He is angry." Gollum whipped his head up, realizing that the Elf prince had been standing on the other side of the prison bars, listening to every word. "Nasty Elf! Cruel Elfses! Don't stare, don't stare. Fierce, bright eyes! Go! Go!"  
"Sméagol," Legolas whispered, refusing to call the creature by his darker surname, "I'm sorry to have startled you. I was not listening, I promise." Of course, he had been. The tone in Gollum's words had sent a chill through his spine. Never before had he heard such malice from an un- orcish creature. "Here, look: I've brought you your supper. Just as you like it."  
Gollum crawled toward the plate that Legolas slid under the low gate. He sniffed it once and his face changed into a look of disgusted rage. "Smells of Elfs! Cruel, fierce Elfs try to poison Gollum! Yes, yes. They don't like us, no they don't."  
"That's not true-" Legolas began. Gollum interrupted by screeching.  
"Lies! Lies! Bad Elf, liar Elf! Go, go, go!"  
Legolas sighed, feeling his patience deplete. "Very well, Sméagol. I'm going now. Eat up. It's all you will get until morning."  
Gollum hissed back. Yet as Legolas ascended the stairs that led away from the dungeon, out of the corner of his eye he saw Gollum reach a trembling hand out toward the plate of fish.  
  
* * *  
  
Legolas knew Gollum hated him, as he hated everything, but he found himself becoming strangely sympathetic with the little creature. He realized that Gollum felt trapped inside the small cell, and that it was truly nothing like the vast tunnels of his lair in the mountains. If anything it probably was an unpleasant reminder or imprisonment in Mordor. But Legolas had an idea.  
The Elves began to take Gollum outside among the trees. The first time they did this he was unrestrained and, as soon as he stepped foot on the open ground, he broke into a frantic run. He had not guessed that Elves were the fastest of the Free Peoples, and they quickly overtook him. Back in the dungeon he went, but they did not punish him in any other way. The next day they led him out using a leash of sorts: a long, thin cord, looped around his neck, a spell laid upon it to prevent it from breaking or unraveling. Different guards took turns watching him as the days went by, and sometimes they fastened the end of the string onto a lone, tall tree so that Gollum could be by himself. But there were always guards nearby.  
One such day, Gollum became frustrated and went to try to untie the knot of the cord that was around the tree. The guards let him try; they knew he would never be able to undo a knot of Elvish make. He couldn't. While sniveling and squealing with rage, beating his fists against the tree, Gollum felt a change. He laid his gray palm against the bole. Then he laid both hands upon it. For a long moment Gollum stayed as such, both palms up against the tree, his wide eyes growing wider, his mouth opening and shutting slowly like a fish out of water. He could feel it living. It was not a thing of stone. It was nothing like the hard cold walls he had grown accustomed to. It kindled happy memories in the far reaches of his mind. Gollum was astounded.  
The guards stopped talking and looked on at their ward in interest. Finally, one asked, "Sméagol? Is all well?"  
In a flash, Gollum scrambled up the tree.  
The guards ran to its base and glared up. Gollum had climbed as far as the cord allowed, and he wrapped himself around the trunk, grinning hysterically, catching black butterflies and stuffing them in his mouth. For the first time he looked happy, or at least amused. Legolas came to visit the prisoner (he did so once a day) and was pleasantly surprised.  
"Let him stay up there," he said, smiling. "The air will do him good. I'm amazed he stands the sunlight. At night we will get him down."  
It was easier said than done. When asked at twilight, Gollum refused to move from his leafy abode. The guards tried to tempt him with promises, and then they used threats. Nothing. Finally, a guard named Baran said he would climb up after Gollum. Wearily, he laid his spear down and scaled the tree at a speed Gollum had not expected. It seemed he had not had time to breathe before the strong Elf caught him in both arms and began to wrench him away from the bole. But Gollum was a fighter. He clung to branches with both his hands and his feet and let out a screech.  
Baran proved to be stronger. He ripped Gollum from the tree and sped down toward the earth. Gollum was so upset that he burst into tears. But Baran was not cruel. "This is for the best, little one. The Spiders come out at night, and they would catch you easily and eat you while you still breathed." Gollum would not be consoled. He screamed all the way back into his dungeon and kept it up during a good deal of the night until his own weariness silenced him.  
Days passed into weeks. June came, warm and welcome, though colder than the Junes of previous summers. The guard around the kingdom was doubled. The trees seemed to shift with tension, and the dim, green glow of light below the Canopy darkened.  
Gollum was let out everyday, and everyday he ran up the tree, and every night he had to be brought down, crying his baleful eyes out. It was during this time that Legolas noticed that another change had come over Gollum. The creature spoke to himself less often, but he did not become sweeter or more winsome. There was eeriness to his silence, like a premonition. Gollum saw something that they could not yet perceive and it was this knowledge that must have made him grin horrible smiles in his sleep. The guard around him was moved from two to three Elves, all armed with curved hunting knives and poison-tipped spears.  
The day of the New Moon, June 20th, Legolas volunteered to be one of the three guards. Thranduil allowed him to forfeit his evening archery practice, and he went to join the other two who watched Gollum. It was Amandil, a renowned scout, and Baran once again. The three Elves let Gollum climb up the tree, carefully knotting the cord around the base of the trunk. Gollum disappeared into the branches without a sound. He made no noises nor uttered a single word all day.  
"I do not like his silence," Amandil remarked, glancing up to where Gollum sat wrapped around a branch, smiling into the wind. "A change has come over him. I would think it was for the better, but my heart tells me otherwise."  
"I feel that, too," said Baran. He fingered the hilt of one of the knives strapped to his hip.  
"As do I," Legolas added. "But look: he is appreciative of the wind, and perhaps even what little sun we receive at the Canopy's edge. Mithrandir told Aragorn that hope remained for Sméagol's recovery, and to that I will hold. The trees heal many. In time, they will reach him as well."  
The day passed by quickly: strangely so. Darkness fell as swiftly as if it were the middle of winter. The Elves all sensed the evil lurking in the growing shadows. Stillness took over the clearing. Woodland creatures were quieted as though they themselves were afraid of some nameless fear. Amandil touched Baran's arm. "Go up and get him now. Night is coming."  
Baran groaned. "Must I? I still have scars on my hands that have not healed from his biting mouth."  
Amandil smiled wryly, "But he likes you now. I think he's used to you."  
Legolas laughed. "If neither of you will do it, I will." The trees rustled nearby. He changed his tone and expression to one of utter seriousness. "Hold my lance, Amandil. I will be down in a moment." He felt a dark premonition coming. Were the Spiders on the hunt again?  
No sooner had Legolas caught the first, lowest branch of the tree than his heart froze as all of his senses alerted him of an approaching force, a wave of shadow. The awareness was paralyzing. His mind screamed one silent word.  
  
Yrch.  
  
* * *  
  
Almost immediately, the air whistled with a haphazard wave of black- feathered arrows. Legolas and Baran dropped flat to the ground, but Amandil was not quick enough. Two darts smote him gruesomely hard in the chest. He opened his mouth and one soft, liquid gasp escaped with a froth of blood. Within a moment he fell to the ground, but was dead before he landed.  
"Amandil!" Baran cried, unsheathing his blade quicker than eyes could follow. He was about to stand, but Legolas clasped his arms around his comrade's legs and wouldn't let him rise.  
"No, Baran. Stay. There are too many."  
Baran turned a horrible look upon Legolas, a look that clearly said, How could you? He writhed in Legolas' grasp and struggled to stand again.  
"That's an order!" Legolas barked in desperation and fear. That was a mistake. The orcs heard the sound of his voice and caught the Elf-scent on the air. They were revealed. Six came thundering towards them, each wielding a blade as wide as the trunk of a young tree.  
Legolas and Baran leapt to their feet and charged their attackers. There was a loud "CLANG!" of metal hitting metal as the two Elves met the first two orcs head on. Within a moment, one orc was missing its head; the other was run through so hard that it was pushed backward, and its falling carcass tripped the orc behind it. They could tell these were Mountain Orcs (goblins, they were called), thus unused to the dense, tangled forest terrain. More came at them. Baran spun and twirled, slicing with his two, crescent-bladed knives. His pale skin was splattered with orc blood. Legolas, in turn, was carving up orcs just as ferociously. But there were too many. Blades swished by his face and his limbs, barely missing the flesh. Pain bit into his head as one weapon found its mark. He saw more goblins coming, an entire horde racing toward the Elven dominion.  
The fight paused for a moment. Legolas reached up his hand and wiped the sweat from his brow. He felt a stinging sensation and winced in sudden, swift agony. Bringing his hand down he saw it was smeared with blood. He had a large cut on the right side of his forehead, just at his hairline.  
A sound brought him back to his senses. It was the clear note of the horn of Baran. He was calling for backup, appealing to the Elven guard oblivious to their plight, and they were going to need it in a few more moments. Legolas ignored the pain from his wound and leapt back into the fray.  
A huge orc met him full force. It was a head taller than him, he who was counted tall among his kin. It locked its jagged scimitar with Legolas' blade and pushed forward with a force he hadn't expected. Before he knew what was happening, he had been roughly slammed back first into a tree trunk. He gasped as the breath was knocked out of him. Blood dripped into his eyes. The orc's fearful face twisted into a maniac grin as Legolas' wrists gave way under the pressure.  
Suddenly the orc's body stiffened and it fell right on top of the Elf. Relieved, he saw at least seven Elven arrows protruding from its back. In a moment he realized the crushing force of the dead orc on his lungs and freed himself from under its gargantuan weight.  
"Your Highness!" a voice called, "Are you alright?"  
It was Silindë-and at least twenty-five of the other members of the Royal Guard of Mirkwood. They had come in the nick of time. Legolas saw the Elven warriors mowing down orcs as quickly as they could. Their fighting arms were blurs. Arrows shot though the air like quick, precise brushstrokes. Yelling voices and bellows filled the glade.  
Silindë rushed to Legolas' side and helped him to stand. "My prince." he whispered in horror. Legolas realized that the right side of his face was completely awash with blood from his head wound, like Uruk war paint. He shook himself back into reality once more, annoyed by his own diversion.  
  
"There are more than there appear to be, Silindë," he said. "More are coming. I can smell them in the air. We cannot defeat them with so few." There was a scream. An Elf had been stabbed through the torso, and Legolas could tell who had been slain by the tone of the voice. "There is an entire armada here."  
If Silindë also harbored Legolas' fear and despair, he would not show it. He slipped an arm around Legolas' waist to help him walk. "Come, Prince Legolas. I will get you back to the palace."  
"There is no time!" Legolas yelled wrenching himself away. Silindë looked genuinely hurt, but Legolas didn't care. He whipped his knife into his palm and flung himself back into the skirmish. "Fight while you can stand," he called.  
It was the last time Legolas saw Silindë, son of Haldan.  
The battle ended swiftly. Though the orcs were in greater number and at a greater advantage than the Elves, having attacked while they were completely at unawares, they began to flee. One of them barked something in Blackspeech and the warriors simply ceased to fight. This caused many of them to receive an arrow through the eye, or to have an arm lopped off. But they ceased. They turned and they ran.  
Exhausted and brutally outnumbered, the Elves resolved to not immediately follow at their heels. An Elf could outrun any orc easily enough, and the trail they left through the forest was so effortless to follow that a human child would have been able to guess their grim direction: South, toward Dol Guldur.  
Legolas sheathed his white knife and dragged a hand across his forehead again. The cut had healed in the Elven manner, clotting quickly, but blood still darkened half his face. His comrades, equally fatigued, also put away their weapons to attend the wounded. They all had taken some form of injury: the least grievous being the scraped skin upon Aratan's right cheek, and the most being the arrow that had struck Lómion in the side, but had not slain him. They had lost two warriors: one fatally stabbed through the stomach-Telchar, the other having received two arrows in the chest-Amandil.  
Yet two were missing.  
"Baran?" Legolas said suddenly. He leapt to his feet, his eyes wild with fear. "Where is Baran?" The Elves stopped all that they were doing and looked about questioningly. This soon turned to cold fear when Aratan lowered his blade and whispered, "And Silindë?"  
All Elves knew, from the moment they could understand language at their youngest, the stories of the shadows that had taken some of their ancestors from their birthplace at Cuiviénen. They knew that from these sad, lost souls, the orcs had been bred. They knew that the orcs hated Elves above all else and that should an Elf be taken captive by an orc, he was never seen again.  
"No," Legolas said in a breathless voice. He was dizzy with agony from his cut and from his fear, and now the horror of the situation was almost blinding him. He couldn't breathe. The prince fell to his knees, too sad to weep, too angry to speak. He knew it was his fault. He was the one who had suggested they let Gollum roam free, with just three guards to watch him-  
Gollum.  
Slowly, Legolas turned his head to see Gollum's favorite tree. The other Elves realized with him and they all stared in disbelief and horror at the dangling cord. It had been sliced through the knot, leaving a deep scar upon the bole.  
Gollum was gone. Baran and Silindë, slain or taken.  
"No," he said again, whispering it to the wind, his voice hoarse with sorrow. The woods became alive with the chorus of the Elves' voices; all shocked and frightened, disbelieving of the treachery that had made them fall apart from the inside. Then silence took them all.  
And Legolas, staring at the blood upon his hands-his own and that of the Fallen Race-knew that it was his fault.  
  
-Fin- 


	3. Chapter III Of Evils Unforgotten

Chapter III - Of Evils Unforgotten  
  
Before the funerals of the dead took place, and the mourning for the lost began, a great hunting party went forth from the palace and sped off in hot pursuit of the orcs and Gollum. The path, plunging southward, remained easy enough to follow. Legolas insisted on going along, though he would speak to no one of the events of June 20th, save to his father alone. Even to Thranduil his words were brief and few. Legolas was a skilled tracker and their greatest archer. The other members of the party appreciated his presence, yet they saw that in his eyes a vital light had gone out.  
  
The party was armed to the teeth with longbows and the renowned white knives of Mirkwood, and consisted of the best scouts and trackers in the kingdom. They followed the trail, heading southwards, for a grueling month and a half. Soon enough they found signs of Gollum: hand and foot prints pressed into the moss of many trees, a leaf curled by the pressing of a toe. It seemed he had decided to travel through the branches like an ape, not enjoying the company of the orcs who had apparently rescued him.  
  
All hope for Baran and Silindë was lost after the first several days, for no sign of the two could be found amongst the pandemonium left behind by the orcs. Only one thing the trackers found: an Elven arrowhead, half buried in the earth. There was orc blood upon it. The captured Elves had clearly fought until their last moments.  
  
Morale, already lessened by the inherent slayings of their friends, depleted even more as the scouting team realized that the trail clearly lead to Dol Guldur. It was August 5th, and the sunlight leaking through the Canopy was white and hot.  
  
"The rumors must be true," a scout named Gwindor observed. "Those orcs were summoned by something in the Tower-why else would they travel there in such haste? Perhaps one of the Nazgûl still reigns there."  
  
"Do not utter that word here!" hissed another, named Saeros. "We have drawn nigh to that black place. The air here is thick with evil." He turned to Legolas meaningfully. "My lord, we should turn back. We can do no more."  
  
Legolas sighed. His bow was drawn and he was scanning the tree line for dangers. "I fear you are right, Saeros. Gollum is beyond our grasp, and these orcs must be in league with Dol Guldur, too evil a place for us to venture, even if our numbers were greater." He turned to his warriors, feeling strange for a moment that he, the youngest among them, was the one to make such decisions. They looked to him with sad eyes, but the eyes of many generations, eyes that had already seen more death and horror than he had ever known. "Do we agree to return home then?"  
  
They did, unanimously but with heavy hearts. The going was swift-they no longer spent the time and toil searching for tracks or signs. It was raining upon the night they returned, and each Elven warrior was thankful that the weather could hide their ashamed, defeated tears.  
  
* * *  
  
October was approaching more swiftly than the Sylvan Elves had expected. Thranduil worked for three weeks at the end of August to organize the envoys for Rivendell. He resolved not to go himself, for the encroaching shadows around Mirkwood were his first and foremost concern.  
  
Legolas' grief did not abate as his father had assured him it would. He wandered alone among the trees around the border of the forest, sometimes venturing out onto the grassy fields that lead to Esgaroth. Many nights he wandered there, staring up at the stars, listening to the whispering of the tall blades. His nocturnal disappearances scared Thranduil to death but he took no notice of his father's anxieties. He walked along the Forest River, nearing the minor colony of his father's kingdom-the people Outsiders called Raft-Elves, though they were of the same kith and kindred as Legolas' people. He could hear them singing at dusk, but their voices were soft, coming from inside their homes. They dared not venture out at night, not with the Spiders and the climbing shadows all around.  
  
He thought of the times of legends, when his people were strong and joyful. Yet their time had passed before he was even born. He had been cheated out of their greatness and their happiness simply being young. He tried to remember his early youth, when the forest was still Greenwood, when the trees were noble and strong, not gnarled and drooping. All memories of childhood were eternally bound to memories of his mother, yet even she was fading from his mind. One such day while walking alone, he realized that he could not remember her laugh.  
  
Thranduil became concerned. He ordered Legolas to stay within the boundaries of the palace during his three-week planning period, but the prince easily found ways to sneak out. At last, Thranduil's temper reached its apex. He called for an audience with his son in his study and the two sat and talked for many hours.  
  
They had argued, drawn nigh to tears, and yelled at each other throughout their talk, and now father and son fell silent. Thranduil gazed at his hands, the fingertips up against each other. Legolas tilted his head to gaze out the narrow window into nothing. The mist had blocked out any view of the leaves or even the stars beyond.  
  
"You realize why I will not allow you to go," the king said at last.  
  
Legolas did not turn from the window. "It makes no sense to me, Father. None whatsoever."  
  
"These are the darkest days our kingdom has seen since the Last Alliance, Legolas." Thranduil's tone had an edge. "Why now would I set you loose among all the dangers of the wild? Nothing in this world wishes us well. Men became wary. Our own trees have grown silent. Some have even turned to Him, I think."  
  
"You do not understand," Legolas said, turning a cold stare upon his father, "Because you were not there. You did not hear the sound Amandil's body made when it fell to the earth, nor did you smell of all the blood in the air." His voice faltered. Thranduil's heart hurt seeing unshed tears gathering in his son's eyes. "My last words to Silindë were heartless and cold. Nothing can forgive that, not even my being allowed to bear the news to Elrond. But it would abate the sufferings of their kindred."  
  
Thranduil considered these words carefully. His mind went back to his first battle alongside his own father, Oropher. He thought of that final moment when he had turned to his father, raising their banner high, and was met with the sight of a single black arrow buried in the king's neck. The memory was like swallowing swift poison, and it set all of Thranduil aching with sorrow. This he masked carefully, regaining his oratorical tone, and began, "You have a duty to your people-"  
  
"I *betrayed* them!" Legolas snapped, rising to his feet as if he was about to pull the knife from his scabbard and stab someone. He towered over Thranduil, seething. "I let them lose four of their brothers and fathers and husbands and sons. I am the one who is responsible for Gollum's escape. Now he probably is running for the sanctuary of Barad-Dûr to report upon all our doings, revealing all to the Dark Lord Himself! How dare you remind me of my duty!"  
  
"That is *enough*," Thranduil hissed, looking rather lethal. Legolas fell unsteadily silent. The king stood up, now matching his son's height to the inch. "What happened in June is no one's fault." He flung up a hand when Legolas began to protest. "Your friends would not disagree with me, had they the ability to speak with you now. Mandos holds them. They are sundered only from Middle-earth, but in the end, so are we all."  
  
Legolas shut his eyes, wishing he were dead or nothing. He felt his father's gaze upon his face, and he felt his father's hand reach up to cup his shoulder.  
  
"But you shall go."  
  
He opened his eyes again, wide-eyed with surprise.  
  
"Yes," Thranduil continued sadly. "You are certainly old enough to make your own decisions now, as much as this choice grieves my heart to bear. I grant you the permission to be the leader of the envoy to Imladris, Legolas. You have earned it. I see that now."  
  
Legolas stared at his father who stared back, his deep gray eyes glittering. They suddenly moved toward each other at an unspoken agreement. Then the father laid his long hand upon his son's cheek and stared for a while into his eyes-eyes inherited from a queen long since stolen from their world, eyes that tilted up at the ends, but the color was his alone. In them gray seas were raging. A bright white fire was held back by only a thin barrier. But Thranduil let it pass. Then they separated and went to grieve in their own ways.  
  
* * *  
  
Baran had had no wife or lover, nor did Telchar, the Elf who had been fatally stabbed. Yet Silindë and Amandil had had wives indeed: Duilwen and Eilinel. The two Elf-maidens had spoken to no one, not even each other, after hearing of their loves' deaths. They remained in their homes and did not come out to sunlight or starlight for many months. Yet upon the eve of the envoy's departure, they sought an audience with the prince of their realm.  
  
"It is too dangerous, Eilinel," Legolas said. He turned an entreating gaze upon Duilwen, who stood staring at the ground, her somber face curtained by a fall of honey-colored hair that must have come from some distant relation to the house of Finarfin. "Tell her, Duilwen. It is too risky for the both of you."  
  
"Your Highness," Eilinel said in a whisper that sounded more like a threat than anything else, calm and frightening, "I speak for myself alone when I say I care no longer for Middle-earth. Without Amandil, it is an empty place devoid of life and happiness. Nothing can hurt me now. I do not expect you to understand, Sir, but I *will* go to Imladris-alone if I must."  
  
"As will I," came the voice of Duilwen, still gazing at her feet. Tears had begun to fall from her eyes once again. The light danced off of her wet cheeks in a way that dazzled Legolas' eyes. For the first time, he saw why Silindë had fallen in love with her. His heart ached like cold fire.  
  
"Very well," he sighed, running a hand through his hair, looking everywhere but at the Elf-maidens before him. "You two shall come with me and the others in the company. But the number must be few. I will sacrifice two of the riders for you. In Imladris you should easily be able to find someone to help you reach Valinor, for there the last of the Vanyar in Middle-earth dwell. I am told that they leave in small groups every year. You may go with them."  
  
Eilinel and Duilwen each said, "Thank you, my lord," and went away-to weep, perhaps, and to prepare for the treacherous journey to Rivendell.  
  
Legolas knew that Eilinel was right. Though he had loved Silindë and Amandil deeply, he would never feel what loss the Elf-maidens felt. He had never truly loved anyone, not as they had. Yes, there had been moments of youthful distraction. Yes, he had stolen away with several maidens and he knew what it was to kiss and be kissed; he was not inexperienced in the art of lovemaking; he had infatuations and he had been both accepted and denied. But he was never truly absorbed in love, not the way he had seen others been lost in it. Furthermore, he still found Mirkwood a wonderful place, despite all of its twisting treacheries and savage dangers. He loved the western Misty Mountains with their jagged points like a saw blade, and the glassy expanse of the Lake of Esgaroth. Rivendell he yearned for almost every day, and he missed his friends there whom he had not seen since long before the Battle of Five Armies. One day, he dreamed, he might go to Lothlorien at last and visit his kindred there, while the light of Galadriel remained.  
  
And he was destined to love before he departed from this world.  
  
* * *  
  
Upon the morning of September 7th, all faces were solemn with fear and foreboding. None looked as completely anxious and distressed as did the countenance of King Thranduil. He rested not at all upon the night before the company's departure. Nor did Legolas truthfully, though he did so mostly because of preparation-not anxiety. The prince felt no fear. Since losing his companions he mostly felt numb.  
  
At dawn, the five chosen for the journey gathered at the great gates. With Legolas went Duilwen and Eilinel, as well as Gwindor and Lómion. Each rider was armed with a bow and a knife. They were given cloaks and a flask of Miruvor as well as enough food for the month-long journey. No tears fell, but a mournful silence hung over the cold morning. The Elf-maidens' families bade them farewell. Lómion's wife, Nienna, came running up to his steed. He leapt down and kissed her hard. Legolas watched them with jealous curiosity for a moment. Neither his nor Gwindor's hearts belonged to anyone else and for the first time he felt empty for it. Gwindor smiled at the couple and did not seem to mind.  
  
The king came forward, tall and proud, draped in the ceremonial greens and browns of their ancient kingdom. Upon his head was the braided silver circlet that his father, Oropher, had worn until he had been shot down upon the battlefield of the Last Alliance.  
  
"Farewell, my son," Thranduil said in a voice so low with sorrow that it was nearly a whisper. "Remember all I taught you, and all the things your teachers have instilled in you. Return as soon as you can." He reached forward and tucked a dark strand of hair behind Legolas' ear, one that the wind had cast across his face. Then the two fiercely embraced. As they pulled apart from each other Thranduil felt, with horrible, wrenching dread, that it could be the last time he saw Legolas. He felt a rush of irrational alarm and found his voice again. "Return, Legolas!" he called as the horses disappeared down the trail. "I shall be waiting."  
  
Legolas turned in the saddle and smiled sadly. He was beautiful and strong, as tall as a young tree, his face possessing the loveliness of a more ancient strain of their people. The wind rippled his hair and cloak. Even as Thranduil's heart ached with sadness, it filled again with immense pride and wonder at his son's majesty. Legolas' voice was as proud as the king's when he spoke, and he seemed more regal and commanding than he had ever before in his life.  
  
"Namarië, Adar."  
  
It was September 7th of the year 3018. Thranduil did not see his son again until the Fourth Age.  
  
* * *  
  
"There is the Bridge of Mitheithel," Legolas said, pointing at the thin stone band that linked the banks of the Ford of Bruinen. It was just visible by Elven-sight, framed by the lush greenness of the valley of Rivendell. "Once we are over that, we have entered Elrond's dominion." He took up the braided reigns again and urged his horse onward. "It is not far."  
  
The journey to Imladris had not been without its challenges. Upon a night of rain, during the first week out, a group of eight full-grown Spiders had attacked the Wood-Elves' camp. Luckily little injury was taken, but the fight was long and laborious. One Spider had even spat it's webbing upon Legolas' shooting arm, pinning it against a tree. For a moment he was completely helpless. Then Duilwen of all people knocked an arrow as the creature leapt for him. The shaft struck the Spider so hard that it went straight through its abdomen. The Spider fell to the earth, a yard from Legolas, and collapsed in a hissing puddle of its own innards. Besides this incident, and a nasty cut Gwindor received, little else happened. They worked well together, united in their lingering sorrow. They steered clear of the mountain reaches where the trolls and goblins were rampant. Their Elven stealth was the only thing that prevented them from alerting their enemies of their presence. The wind blew at them, making the hike uncomfortable, but the horses' scent did not travel to the goblin caves. They reached the outer borders of Imladris' valley upon the 11th of October.  
  
Then the greatest evil drew nigh.  
  
Rumors of the Nine riding abroad had reached Mirkwood's people, another horror story to keep the Royal Guard doubled as it traced perimeter of the Empire Beneath the Canopy each night. Most wrote it off as just another tale to scare children, but King Thranduil took it seriously enough, as did Legolas. As the entourage neared the Bridge of Mitheithel, each Elf felt a strange watchful shadow near to them. Legolas' mind immediately went to the rumors. Yet none among them was able to guess at the strength of the malice that was approaching.  
  
"Legolas," Lómion whispered, "Do you feel that?"  
  
"Yes. It's not yrch either. Something more cunning I think." The three other Elves trotted close by. Legolas turned to them and said, "My heart tells me that there is something close to us that we cannot stand against at this time. But we are near to safety. We shall make a run for the Bridge and cross one by one: first Eilinel and Duilwen, then you, Lómion, and then Gwindor. I will be the rear guard."  
  
"Your Highness-" Duilwen began.  
  
"No, I insist upon being last," said Legolas. "I am the best and most accurate shot among us, and if it comes to arrows then I want to be within range. Time grows short-I feel the air throbbing with darkness." He urged his horse on without motion or word. The five Elves' steeds broke into a canter, flying over the stony terrain as swiftly and gracefully as deer.  
  
Suddenly a cold, evil cry sliced through the sunlight.  
  
Four Black Riders were gaining at uncanny speed, their steeds' hooves thundering upon the earth. The noise echoed in Legolas' ears as he rode as hard as he could. He did not get far before he began to feel very strangely out of control. He felt something holding him back, pulling him away from the safe haven he knew lay a few yards beyond. It seemed to close around his throat like a vice, filling his lungs like smoke. Strength weakened. He tried to shake off the Shadow, always urging his horse onward. Yet as he advanced, the nausea increased. The further he tried to get from his pursuers, the stronger he felt the tugging sensation in his chest, taught and raw.  
  
Ahead of him, he saw the horses of his companions falter, cantering unsteadily. He knew the same hold was upon his friends. Gwindor slowly turned in his saddle, mouth open with exhaustion, and after his eyes locked with those of his prince he had a look of horror, staring at something just behind. Eilinel, Duilwen and Lómion had reached the other side of the Bridge. In a moment, Gwindor had crossed as well. It was narrow, and they could only pass one at a time safely. Legolas was relieved when his turn came.  
  
Suddenly the world darkened, becoming blurred beyond recognition. He thought for a fleeting moment that he saw something ahead like a lighted torch, something calling to him desperately-it had a clear, ringing voice. But he knew that he was beyond any aid now. In a moment the Riders would catch up to him and he would fall forever into Shadow. He thought of his father and of the songs of his home, rising and falling like water lapping upon a distant shore. He thought of the stars burning.  
  
As he shut his eyes, begging for death rather than the torments of the Nazgûl, Legolas heard a cry:  
  
"Go back to the Shadow, shades of Men! You hold no dominion here! By Vilya the Great, and the power of Elrond Half-Elven who governs here, be gone from this place!"  
  
He could see again! His horse regained its will to live and charged across the bridge. Life and breath came back into his limbs, and he grasped the reigns in both fists and let his head fall against the warm neck of his steed. As Legolas arrived on the other side of the river, he saw a gleaming shape ride past him, heading straight for the Riders. Still feeling sick, he turned and blearily saw the Elf-lord Glorfindel revealed in his wrath, glowing like the North Star. The Nazgûl wailed and fled before him. He held a long-bladed sword like a shaft of light and sped after them. He was silently chanting something, too: a strong spell that girdled Imladris from their terror for a while.  
  
"Vilya..." Legolas whispered in wonder, sensing a great power all around him, and then he felt himself slip into nothingness, at last safe in Rivendell.  
  
-Fin-  
  
REVIEW please!  
  
Continued in Chapter IV - In the House of Elrond, in which we will meet several humans, dwarves and hobbits of importance... 


	4. Chapter IV In the House of Elrond

AUTHOR NOTES: This chapter will include the members of the Fellowship, and will explain how Legolas came to join them. I decided to skip the Council of Elrond. I hope that's cool with everyone. After all, it is a matter of politics more than of the psyche, which is the main focus of my story. There's not much space for elaboration besides. Realize, of course, that this story contains many spoilers for anyone who has not read the complete Lord of the Rings trilogy. Now, here is Chapter 4:  
  
Chapter IV - In the House of Elrond  
  
"How is he, my lord?"  
  
"As good as he may be given the trauma of the assault. The Black Breath has affected him, though not severely. He was weary from his journey and they caught him at unawares. I fear, though, that the affliction will stay with him as long as he dwells upon this shore."  
  
"They guessed who he was, then?"  
  
"I do not doubt it, Erestor. I have heard from Mithrandir that the Nazgûl have been trained to seek out our nobility, or at least what is left of them. They must have sensed him from their Master's bidding. It is well he encountered them here, close to our aid. Otherwise I do not think he would have survived."  
  
"Few can ride openly against the Nine. Lord Glorfindel drove them away, though I fear what may next assail us. He rides now to seek out Frodo as Mithrandir suggested."  
  
"Then there is a little hope yet."  
  
* * *  
  
He cried out in his nightmares only once.  
  
"Adar!"  
  
* * *  
  
There was something cool and firm upon Legolas' forehead. He furrowed his brow and slowly opened his eyes, blinking in the daylight. He felt a breeze and in the air he smelled something clean and leafy. He was warm but the light wind was refreshing. As his eyes came into focus, Legolas saw an Elven woman with raven hair seated by him. His mind raced back to the memories of his earliest childhood-the first hundred years that had been marked by such happiness, when Mirkwood was fresh and flourishing. The part of him that still dwelt in the nightmares the Black Breath had settled upon him whispered, "Mother?" But fatigue silenced him. The cool thing was lifted away-it had been her hand.  
  
"Legolas, can you see me?"  
  
That voice! "Ar-Arwen?"  
  
"Yes, my friend. I am here."  
  
She shimmered into view, looking just as she had the hundreds of years ago that last he had seen her: the flawless oval face, the crystal- gray eyes glinting, her hair glossy as a river at night-a startlingly beautiful maiden. She was smiling a little, and relief at his recovery was evident in her face.  
  
"You had us worried for three days, Legolas," she chided gently.  
  
He sat up with a start. "The Council!" It was a mistake. Dizziness made him lean back again with a weary sigh.  
  
"Relax!" she laughed. "It is October the 14th, and naught shall happen for eleven more days. You have missed nothing."  
  
He smiled and reached out for her hand. "I have missed you, Arwen. What I have heard of your well-being has only been the things of rumor, yet some things I know to be true-for they were told to me by Aragorn." He briefly searched her face. "*That* at least is true then?"  
  
She sighed, looking away at something he could not see, a new light kindled in her storm-colored eyes. "Yes, it is true, Legolas. I knew it long ago. In Lorien."  
  
"Lorien. *Many* years ago, then. Sometimes I forget that he is of Númenorean blood."  
  
"It shall let him live a little longer." Her tone was soft, but icy and bitter.  
  
Legolas began to say something else but suddenly a wave of complete nausea came over him like a cloud that blocks out the sun. He gasped for air, and Arwen grasped his hand between both of her own and called to him in their sacred tongue.  
  
"Lasto beth nin. Tolo dan na ngalad."  
  
The pain vanished. "What happened?" he asked in a broken whisper, willing his pulse to slow.  
  
"The Nine caught you at our borders, or nearly did. There were only four of them there, but they came so close to taking you from us that you were marked by the Black Breath. Had you been mortal, I think you would have immediately become a wraith like them-so deep and ferocious was their malice."  
  
"Glorfindel-"  
  
"He sensed your approach, and is an Elf-Lord of great power, second only to my father here in Rivendell. He alone drove them away." She paused and looked at him without pity or admiration, but genuine respect as though he were a great king like his father. "One day, they shall fly from you."  
  
"That I doubt," he said with a little laugh.  
  
She rose and drew her shawl over her shoulders: mist-blue gauze hemmed with clear gems like drops of rain. "I will leave you to rest now," she said, pausing at the door. "Come down to us only when you are ready. Your friends often ask of you."  
  
"Thank you, Undómiel," the prince said.  
  
"The pleasure is mine, Greenleaf," she replied with a little mischievous grin.  
  
* * *  
  
Prince Legolas of Mirkwood was blessed with the ability to heal swiftly and without lingering pain, as was the gift delivered unto all of his kind. Yet for many years following the War of the Ring, he swore that that encounter with the Nazgûl had permanently had an effect upon his soul.  
  
By that evening, Legolas was up and about, as easy upon his feet as any of the other Elves. He saw many friends: his companions from Mirkwood, Lord Elrond whom he had known since before he could remember, Elrond's councilor Erestor, and many others of the household of Imladris. He was grieved to learn that the sons of Elrond, Elladan and Elrohir, had gone abroad with the Rangers.  
  
"Wait," Arwen said. "My heart tells me you will meet with my brothers before this ordeal is through."  
  
And now "this ordeal" was in all of their minds, hanging like a low storm cloud over the lush valley. Many travelers came each day, and they met with no trouble from the Nine. The Dwarves reported a run in with Mountain Goblins but little else had gone amiss for them. All hearts were filled with fear when the Ringbearer was late.  
  
Glorfindel said he found Frodo with Aragorn and three others of the Halfling kind after nine days abroad. Frodo had taken a stab from a Morgul blade-an unheard of wound that would have rendered even an Elf-Lord come of age in a state of near-death. Legolas imagined what the Hobbit suffered in comparison with his own affliction. It seemed to be nothing at all against such a hurt. The Nine had been vanquished in the river, drowned by a powerful spell concocted by Elrond, but it was only a matter of time before they returned stronger than ever.  
  
Legolas was relieved when Aragorn arrived, though the Ranger was heavy of heart from fear for Frodo. He seemed to take some comfort when Arwen came to him at the front gates, her white arms opened before him. Legolas stood aloof from the others and watched their embrace with interest. Once, long before Aragorn had been born, Elrond and Thranduil had hoped a love would form between Legolas and Arwen, but they took to each other like brother and sister and no romance followed. Now he wondered how their story would end. He wondered if it could end happily, even in better times. *How can an Elf love a mortal?* he thought to himself. *It is naught but a set-up for a suffering that does not end. Aragorn is not Beren. Ah, but Arwen-she must be Luthien Tinúviel.*  
  
The days went by quickly. Legolas was healed with no trace of the Shadow upon him save in memory and a fear that would brew in his heart whenever the servants of the Enemy drew nigh. Frodo, they feared, would carry his wound for the rest of his life in a graver manner for he was mortal. The Elf-prince wished to meet this Hobbit-he had only seen him once, when they carried him inside after the flood had washed away the Nazgûl. Yet Legolas and Frodo did not meet until the morning of the Council of Elrond.  
  
He spent time with Aragorn, asking many questions (as usual) about all that had happened since Gollum's delivery. In turn, Aragorn wished to hear what had occurred in Mirkwood. Once he asked after Gollum himself. Legolas' face went ashen and he said, "I beg of you, wait till the Council. There I will reveal all." Aragorn answered this with a troubled look, but did not press for more.  
  
An envoy of Dwarves arrived from the Lonely Mountain, mainly keeping to their own kind. Legolas had been wary of Dwarves ever since their run-in long ago. The peace pledged at the following battle had been an uneasy one. Besides, he had no fondness for Dwarves-they had none for him or his kind, why should he?  
  
Legolas eventually met Gandalf the Gray, whom he had not seen since the Battle of Five Armies sixty years ago. His father had always admired the Gray Wizard. He remembered after the ordeal with the Dragon, before the Hobbit Bilbo had been sent home, Thranduil had entreated to Gandalf to return to their kingdom in a time of peace. No such time had come, and the gray pilgrim's labors had not ended. And yet, to Legolas' surprise, Gandalf remembered exactly who he was and approached him.  
  
"Thranduil's boy," he laughed. "You fought bravely that day, and nearly made your father die of fright. You should have seen him harp on you when you were very small. He's a grand leader, your father, but never put him under that strain again!" Legolas had taken an arrow in the shoulder, narrowly missing his heart or lungs. "It is good to see you again, my prince."  
  
"And you, Mithrandir. You have changed greatly since last I saw you. There is anxiety in your face, and lines that were not there before. You see little hope, don't you?"  
  
"I have seen days of such bliss, as have you. Those memories are what I hold on to, though my heart tells me this coming task will be my last, for good or ill."  
  
Legolas nodded and fell silent. The wizard bent his gray head up and gazed at the stars. It was night, and the two were outside in one of the great gardens. He raised his hand up to cup the light of the crescent moon.  
  
"Memories," Gandalf sighed. "That is all any of us shall be left with."  
  
* * *  
  
The morning of October the 25th came. Legolas rested for an hour during the night, for he did not feel at all tired. He went out into the forest many hours before dawn and walked alone for a while before returning with the first rays of sunlight spilling into the green valley. Many of the other Elves were up and about, never tiring, yet the Council could not begin until the mortal guests had awakened.  
  
When everyone was up and had been fed, the time for the Council drew nigh. Elrond went about to each group of guests, seeking out one or two representatives amongst their company. He was a benevolent ruler, and those not selected amazingly showed little unhappiness. From the Dwarves, one named Gloin and his son, Gimli, were selected. Glorfindel obviously attended; he was an indispensable source of knowledge that spread far back into the days of Gondolin. Also Erestor was chosen to partake. He was Elrond's chief councilor-an Elf who had ventured into Mirkwood more than once during Legolas' lifetime. Indeed, Erestor had been one of those attending upon the Mirkwood prince during his recent affliction.  
  
An Elf named Galdor, dressed in the colors of the misty shore, came as a messenger of Círdan of the Gray Havens. Legolas found being near Galdor to be unsettling. There was something about that Elf that seemed unnaturally desolate. He imagined the difficulty one of the Eldar must face when living so near to the Sea and its siren call. Legolas, in his long life, had never seen the Sea. His Grandfather had, long ago, while at war in Eregion. It was said that it did something to King Oropher, affecting his judgment and leading to his fall during the ensuing battles. He had forbidden Thranduil to go near the Sea-so dangerous was its call to the Elves of Mirkwood. But to Legolas it was akin to a myth that some swore by and others passed off for legend.  
  
The two Hobbits who attended fascinated Legolas. Bilbo was old, and yet not so. Despite his grayed hair and lined face, there was a ceaseless fire kindled in his eyes. He seemed very wise as well-as learned in Elven lore as any among that household.  
  
When Bilbo was introduced to Legolas, his face lit up. "A child of Mirkwood! To think I would see one of you again! Oh, how is your homeland? Not too dreary I should hope? It was dark then, save where your people were. How is your father?"  
  
"He is well," said Legolas with a smile. "He will be glad to hear of you again, 'Burglar.' Your getting by our sentinels that night is still a bone of contention among the Royal Guard." He paused, seeing an unreadable expression flit across the Hobbit's face. "Well, now we've begun to understand what allowed you to do so." He would not mention the Ring. It did not seem right to speak of such here, away from the blackening world.  
  
Bilbo seemed to shake off the shadow, and laughed heartily. "Oh, Mirkwood, Mirkwood, what a place! What a wondrous-Frodo! Come here, lad! I want to introduce you to someone."  
  
In spite of himself, Legolas felt his heart flutter a bit, for finally he was to meet the Ringbearer. Frodo was a young hobbit, about a head taller than Bilbo, with a head of curly brown hair and deep, soulful eyes. There was an unnatural strain in those eyes, which Legolas recognized immediately. For a long moment, Elf and Hobbit were joined together in the memory of the Shadow that had fallen upon them in different ways. Neither would forget the moment when they first met.  
  
"Elen síla lumenn'omentielvo," said Frodo with a charming, rustic accent, formality making his shoulders stiff. Legolas smiled. "I am Frodo, son of Drogo, of the Shire."  
  
"Mae govannen, perrian," the prince said. "It is an honor to meet you, Frodo," Legolas said, placing his hand upon his heart and bowing slightly. "I am Legolas, son of Thranduil of the Elves of Mirkwood."  
  
"I am honored to finally meet you, Your Highness." He had not stated his title. Frodo knew who he was indeed. "Bilbo always told us stories of your people. It is a wonder to able to meet you here, so far west of the Misty Mountains."  
  
Legolas was about to reply, but Elrond's voice rose above all the others. "Come, friends, to the Council Room. Even as we speak now, the strength of the Enemy grows."  
  
Politely, Elf and Hobbit smiled, and then joined the small crowd that gathered, following behind the tall figure of Elrond. Legolas fell back into thought: home, the forest, his father-the usual. Then something hard jostled him from the right.  
  
"My apologies, Sir."  
  
A Man, fair of face, with sharp gray eyes and raven hair had accidentally walked into the Elf without watching where he was going. He had been staring in wonder at the leafy mural painted upon the domed roof with skill Men did not have-an art that made it seem that the leaves could actually move in the breeze. Legolas politely smiled and said, "It is nothing," and returned to his own thoughts. That was Boromir, Man of Gondor, brother to one who would end up being an important pawn in the Elf's life. Thus was the first though not the last time the children of Denethor had come into his world and upset the balance.  
  
* * *  
  
Legolas was in the Hall of Fire reading a book of Quenya poetry from the First Age when Lord Elrond approached him. Quenya was the language the young prince loved the best, though his strongest tongue was Sindarin. He loved the fluidity present in the oldest of elvish languages, and the rippling vowels that rolled off the tongue. He had discovered a love poem written by an elf named Gelmir who had lived in fallen Gondolin. Now, a footnote said, the poet dwelt over the sea in Valinor. Legolas loved the stanzas: they were a description of a maiden's eyes that reflected the stars more clearly than the Mirrormere itself.  
  
Elrond laid a hand on Legolas' shoulder when the prince began to rise in search of a fountain pen and paper to copy the poem down. Startled, Legolas' eyes met Elrond's full on and immediately he was filled with the old shame of the news he had reported to the Council. The Elf-Lord's gaze held no contempt or judgment, but there was a purpose visible therein. "My lord?" Legolas entreated, down casting his eyes, hoping to hide the fire he felt rising in his face.  
  
"I need to speak with you, Thranduil's son," Elrond replied. "It is a matter of great importance." He looked down at the open page of the poetry book and smiled slightly. "Gelmir of Gondolin.....my father knew him."  
  
Legolas meekly returned the smile. "What is it you wish to discuss with me, my lord?"  
  
Elrond sighed and sat beside Legolas on the chaise. "If only we had the grace to make more poets and less warriors now as we did then. These are such dismally dark times."  
  
Legolas did not reply, but searched Elrond's face. The older Elf was deep in the councils of his own mind as though he were grappling with a decision that was difficult to bear.  
  
"You like poetry?" Elrond asked suddenly, a tired smile on his face.  
  
"More than almost anything," Legolas admitted, running his fingers over the embossed runes of the book's cover, the same wonder present in his eyes as he had held in his earliest days of youth. "Quenya especially. The sound of it portrays the writer's emotions in a way that most language cannot."  
  
"Indeed," Elrond mused. Legolas saw that the Elf lord seemed to be gazing at something far off that only he could see. "I hear you have a gift with words."  
  
Legolas inclined his head and smiled. "Perhaps. My Father has ensured that my greatest skill is with the bow. There is little time allotted for the study of much else. The libraries here are like coming upon a lost treasure horde. If we had such a collection in Mirkwood, I would spend my days immersed in poetry, not at target practice."  
  
Elrond laughed. "Perhaps you will think otherwise upon the usefulness of your skill when I tell you what is in my mind."  
  
Legolas looked up swiftly. "Speak, my lord."  
  
Elrond sighed, and cleared his throat. "After the Council, Gandalf and I discussed the fate of the Ringbearer privately. We knew that it was obvious that he must not depart from Rivendell alone, with only little Sam by his side. Yet even with Gandalf accompanying him as well, it would do little to protect Frodo should all of the evils pointed at him converge as well they may."  
  
Legolas understood. "I will go."  
  
Elrond looked at him hard. "I have said it before, and I shall say it again, Legolas. 'He should not vow to walk in darkness, who has not seen nightfall.' I did not choose you because you have years of experience behind you." He stopped, seeing the prince look away, sad and embarrassed. Continuing, he said, "There are others among my household whom I would have selected if that was what I sought. But, Legolas, I deem you fit for this mission. You haven proven yourself as a reputable warrior-even your father can back that, though I feel it will be a grievous blow to him if you accept."  
  
"I will accept, my Lord," Legolas said steadily.  
  
Elrond smiled. "I knew you would."  
  
* * *  
  
The evening before the departure of the Company arrived. All day Legolas had worked to completely prepare for the journey. He took his white knife to the forge of Imladris where the Elven-smiths were happy to sharpen its blade till it made a ringing sound when swiped through the air. Legolas dealt with his bow himself. The old string he removed and discarded, restringing it with a new cord. He held it up plucked it once: it made a perfect, echoing note, the sound the Mirkwood archers called Gurthlindë, the singer of death. It was the sound of a precise, lethal bow ready for a hunt or the battlefield. Legolas had brought with him a small vial of the poison Mirkwood Elves were famous for: he lowered the tip of each of his arrows into the clear liquid and let the sticky substance harden there. The venom would kill a large orc in less than three minutes if the arrow had not hit a vital part.  
  
Thus Legolas filled his quiver with the toxic arrows (being sure to put them away with the points facing downward-he would never forgive himself if one of the curious Hobbits should puncture himself by accident). He also laid out the clothes he had selected for the quest: the ones he wore while hunting, which made him blend into his surroundings as easily as an Ent in Fangorn-a dark green tunic, gray leggings and his tanned shoes which had never failed him on all forms of terrain. Lastly, he set out his moss-colored cloak, which kept him warm and dry in all varieties of weather.  
  
Having completed his work, Legolas caught his own eye in the long mirror across the room. He stood up and stared at himself. *I still look so young,* he mused sadly, his gray eyes boring into the ones of the reflection. *Men, they get gruffer with age, but we gain wisdom and grace. Yet I feel as clumsy as a Dwarf in a boat among my kindred here. How different an Elf of shadowy Mirkwood is to the last of the Vanyar and the kindred of Elrond.* He undid the plaits in his dark hair and combed it out once. It shimmered as if wet in the silver lamplight. Legolas put it back up and ran a hand over his head. He hoped he didn't appear weary to anyone beside himself.  
  
A farewell feast was beginning in the Hall of Fire. As Legolas left to partake in it, he saw himself in the mirror departing with movements like a ghost.  
  
* * *  
  
"Legolas! Come sit by us!"  
  
Arwen rose from her seat and waved to him from across the room. There was an empty chair to her right-to her left was Aragorn, looking rather relaxed and like his old self: the untroubled Dunadan who called all of Middle-earth his home. The Hall was alive with voices of the Free Peoples. He heard the old Hobbit, Bilbo, singing one of his songs. Frodo ate and drank with his three friends. The Dwarves were talking in low voices that carried far in their strange, rough language. Legolas was careful not to meet their eyes. The old gray one named Gloin had taken an immediate disliking to him already. Men were exchanging tales of their homelands. Elves were singing, reciting, praising, advising, condoling and laughing.  
  
The table was heaped with food. Miruvor shone in the crystal decanters like liquid sunlight, wine like jewels of blood. There was roasted venison, full of spices, steaming loaves of bread, sliced fruit and vegetables cooked to perfection. The aroma had carried all the way up to his room. A lyre was being passed around the table, and the guests were taking turns reciting poems or playing songs from their homelands. When it landed in Legolas' hands, he fell silent.  
  
"I have not the heart," he said, smiling sadly. "Arwen, you sing."  
  
She took the lyre from his uneasy hands, trying to look into his eyes to read his thoughts. But he kept them cast down upon the table, seeming to see naught at all. There was an air of melancholy all around him, as though a memory of the Shadow had somehow been stirred within him despite the beauty and happiness around him. She hoped it wasn't a repercussion of the Black Breath taking hold of his heart.  
  
Arwen began to sing part of the Lay of Leithian, the tale of Beren and Luthien. It was a bit of a scandalous selection on Arwen's part, what with Aragorn seated right next to her. Elrond stopped speaking with Gandalf and looked across the table at Arwen and Aragorn. His expression was unreadable, but held no delight. Glorfindel turned to raise an eyebrow at Arwen, yet his eyes fell upon Legolas. The young prince had touched no food, only a sip of the wine in his glass, and was silent as a stone.  
  
He was deep in thought about his home that was many miles northeast, his heart reaching across the miles to try and touch that of his father. But the king, far away and distracted by the ever-present evils of the darkening forest, was silent.  
  
-Fin-  
  
Continued in Chapter V - An Account of the Quest The Fellowship is on the move!  
  
REVIEW or I shall smite you 


	5. Chapter V An Account of the Quest

AUTHOR NOTES - This chapter is a brief summary of the events that happened to the Fellowship between Rivendell and Lothlorien as seen through the eyes of Legolas (not too long, leaving out quite a bit as well). Though I specifically said beforehand that this is a fic based upon the book and not the film, I've included several scenes that resonate the leisure time spent during the quest, as they appeared onscreen. Also, I couldn't resist: the cave troll bit is in-with a few alterations, of course. There's a lot of skipping around now, so I'm cutting some book scenes, adding or expanding others, but since you all SHOULD know the story line (wink wink nudge nudge) you should be able to follow it all rather painlessly. Be on the look out for foreshadowing of future events! (Eowyn, Eowyn, Eowyn...)  
  
Chapter V - An Account of the Quest  
  
They departed at dusk, a time which the Hobbit named Sam whispered reminded him most of the Elves. Legolas agreed, though in an admittedly more cynical way. Sam saw it as the time when the entire world was bathed in the cool blues of twilight, with the first pinpricks of stars showing themselves in the darkening sky: the way he imagined things must have looked upon the shores of Cuiviénen so many thousands of years ago. But Legolas saw it as an ending, a fading, and a steady dwindling that only diminished more and more with each passing minute, as though the dawn would never come again. The shapes of things were lost in the night. The day was denied to the Elves. They were to forever dwell in the constant twilight.  
  
He felt a keening sorrow as he left Rivendell, saying good-bye to Duilwen, Eilinel, Gwindor and Lómion who had gone with him for so far and long. The two Elf-maidens he felt he would never see again though he knew that one day, he too would follow across the phantom sea. He must. They embraced, but kept silent.  
  
Arwen he saw for a moment, but she only had eyes for Aragorn. They met beneath the birch trees near the narrow bridge. The river was trickling quietly: most of the water had frozen up in the mountains with the onslaught of winter. They clung to one another almost violently, but did not kiss.  
  
"Wait for me," he whispered.  
  
She touched the ring of Barahir upon his hand and said, "I swear it, Estel."  
  
Legolas did not know that it was upon Arwen's suggestion that Elrond had selected him for the Fellowship. She never told him thereafter.  
  
Legolas turned and, not looking where he was going, nearly walked right into the dwarf, Gimli. The stout creature seemed at least to be strong and hardy, for he had insisted upon wearing a full coat of Dwarven mail upon his person at all times-a tradition, apparently. Shoved in his belt was an enormous gleaming axe, its blade newly sharpened by Elrond's Elven-smiths. Gloin, Gimli's father, had loudly proclaimed that no Elf could do justice to a blade of Erebor, and Gimli seemed to agree. If the axe hadn't been so dreadfully blunt from his trek to Rivendell, he probably would have refused the smiths' aid. *He's in for a surprise,* Legolas thought to himself, a smile flickering across his face. *Everyone knows the blades of our people are the keenest in all Middle-earth.*  
  
A chorus of voices laced in various languages came from the Last Homely House, as the nine were bidden "Farewell" by Elves, Dwarves, Men and one old Hobbit. Legolas turned his head to see his friends and kin, wondering if it truly was for the last time. The smell of the trees made him delirious with sorrow. They rounded the path and the Last Homely House disappeared from sight.  
  
Walking with his selected companions, Legolas took some comfort. He and Aragorn walked in silence, shoulder-to-shoulder, equal in height and similar in gait. They walked behind the rest, a rear-guard fortified with blade and arrow. He tried to guess Aragorn's mind, but knew the task was fruitless. Legolas could never understand the things that Aragorn would have to face. He knew the Man thought of Arwen, too. The thought of her lit a fire in his dark gray eyes.  
  
They walked for a while, mostly in silence save for the quiet conversation the Hobbits shared. Gimli seemed to be muttering to himself, but no one heeded him. As they went further and further from the borders of Rivendell, the woods seemed to transform from alive and friendly to menacing and savage. Legolas took some comfort in the feral quality of the forest. It was a reminder of home.  
  
He needed comfort. A nameless Elven sense had begun to warn him of something...  
  
Legolas felt the Shadow again.  
  
It was soft, like a humming below even Elven frequency. Yet it was there plainly, in front of him or a bit to the right. His body tensed: evil this close to Rivendell? They had not walked eleven miles. What was going on? Where was it coming from?  
  
Aragorn felt Legolas stiffen, and recognized the alertness in his friend's sharp eyes. He leaned near the Elf and whispered in a low voice: "What is it? I yet feel nothing."  
  
"I know not. It's very faint, but it's there. It is as if it hangs over us." Legolas shook his head. "I am imagining things. It is the effect of the Black Breath still tainting my spirit. Forgive me."  
  
The Man nodded, "That wound may take a long time to heal," and looked away. Yet even as he did so, Legolas' mind acutely focused upon the darkness he felt, the steady pulse. Enlightened, he looked up and his piercing eyes fell upon the curving shoulders of Boromir.  
  
The Shadow flickered, staring him in the face, and went out.  
  
* * *  
  
The days went by with little variation. Life for an Elf passes both quickly and slowly. It seemed they had not been abroad long before the looming form of Caradhras appeared, towering and menacing, the white sun glinting off of the uppermost icy peaks like fangs on the Wargs they had battled some nights ago. The Fellowship was thankful for the fur-lined cloaks made for them in Rivendell. Even Legolas, whom the elements could not fully affect, took comfort in the added warmth.  
  
The trek up the mountain was long and tedious. Legolas passed the time by falling into daydreams. Whenever the snow stung his skin where it landed, he projected his spirit to Mirkwood, just outside its borders, running free upon an open glade. He thought on the cool sound of his father's voice, and the atonal cries of the forest creatures.  
  
The swirling snow was taxing upon all the others' spirits. Yet Legolas, who had been in snow so few times during his long life, reveled in the experience. While the others huddled together, pressed against a cliff face, he stood out alone on an outcropping of rock. He knew that his companions (save Aragorn) looked at him quizzically, but he found that he didn't care. The cold wind whistling through his hair was refreshing. Why were mortals so weak to the pleasures of nature?  
  
Standing alone, Legolas took the white knife from his side and unsheathed it, staring at the beauty of the tempered steel in the white light. Yet the sight of the blade brought him back to the night of June 20th. Suddenly a vision flashed before his eyes and the blade was black with orc-blood, and red with the blood of the Elves. He shoved the knife back into its scabbard, banishing the memories from his mind.  
  
He confessed no sadness when Frodo decided to take a different route. Yet when Moria was discussed, he spoke up.  
  
"I do not wish to go through Moria. Can we not risk the southern road, where at least our enemies will be in daylight and not the smothering dark?"  
  
Yet the voice of the lone Elf was ignored. The gloom of Moria engulfed them all.  
  
* * *  
  
"Look out!" came a cry. It was Pippin.  
  
Legolas wrenched his blade out of the orc's throat and spun around. His reflexes literally forced him to stop thinking and duck just in time as the massive Cave Troll hurled its heavy chain at his head. As it whistled by, Legolas knew the force of the thing would have crushed his skull in an instant. He threw himself back, the shock of the attack making him unsteady. The Troll, annoyed at having missed this prime target, bellowed terribly and brought back its arm again. The Elf ducked. Frustrated, the Troll tried a third time. Legolas managed to throw himself to the side, but a stray orc arrow whistled by his arm, ripping his sleeve and barely missing the flesh.  
  
They had been fighting in this ceaseless manner for a good hour. In time, they wouldn't hold out.  
  
The Cave Troll was furious now. Something in its small, dark mind made it hate Legolas more than the others in the chamber. It saw beauty and wisdom and even maddening compassion: it had to stamp this out. It had to end this thing, this intruding light in his perfect, dim world. With a great roar, it heaved its arm back a fourth time. Legolas' mouth went dry as he realized he had nowhere left to go: orcs below, and a chain the width of a man screaming towards his neck.  
  
Something remarkable happened. The Cave Troll's actions were angry and unmeasured: it had miscalculated the radius of its swing and brought the chain down upon a column. The links coiled around the cylinder twice.  
  
Seeing his chance, Legolas rushed forward. He slammed his foot down upon the chain where two links had caught, securing it around the stone column. Then, without a thought for his own well being, he flew up the taught chain and leapt upon the Troll's back. This wasn't to the creature's liking at all. It screamed and stamped, throwing its weight around, trying to get the horrible, light-dwelling thing off of itself. It hurled up its arms, its huge hands wildly swinging about, hoping to clamp onto a limb he could rend off. But Legolas, quicker than mortal sight, knocked an arrow and aimed it straight down at the base of the Troll's spine. *If I get it right,* Legolas thought to himself, *I'll break its neck. I can end this now.*  
  
As he unleashed the arrow, the Troll clamped its hand around Legolas' leg with a crushing force. But in the next instant, the pain from the arrow made it let go. Legolas, stunned by the pressure on his ankle, shook himself out of shock and leapt off the Troll's shoulders. He cursed himself- he had missed. The Troll was still very much alive: but more annoyed, more bloodthirsty, more haphazard. Someone was going to get very hurt very soon. If only he had gotten that shot! Legolas reached behind him to pull another arrow and was horrified when his hand only caught air. With his ammunition spent, he was vulnerable. He strapped his bow back on and fell to using his knives again; cutting a path toward the slain orcs from whom he might retrieve used arrows.  
  
The orcs seemed to fear him, and yet for their fear they fought him the most fiercely. They remembered what an Elf was: they recognized, with an inborn sense, the scent and sight of their greatest enemy in all of Middle-earth. Legolas did not grant them the luxury of fighting for long. They leapt at him, but he ducked and spun with a grace they could not match, not even in speed and with great numbers. When a spear was thrown at his side, he twisted out of the way and yanked an arrow from a body near his feet. A small fountain of black blood seeped from the disturbed wound. Grimacing, Legolas replaced it in his quiver. He retrieved three more arrows. Sighting the fifth, he heard Aragorn yell. An orc blade had slashed his arm, but did little damage. Legolas smiled grimly, knowing now the Ranger would simply fight harder and more ferociously.  
  
The number of orcs dwindled as more and more fell dead, yet the Troll was unstoppable. When everyone else was distracted with saving their own skins, it cornered young Frodo. Before aught else could be done, they all froze with fear hearing a breathless cry. Legolas whipped around, his heart guessing at what had occurred. Frodo had been smashed in the torso by a lance hurled by none other than the Cave Troll.  
  
Something snapped inside Legolas then. Something changed within each of them.  
  
He spiraled back into action, fighting harder and more recklessly than he had before. Sorrow was stinging his insides like a poisoned dart, but he fought on, gritting his teeth, ignoring the foul blood that was splattering on his skin. He heard Sam break down into hopeless tears, falling to his knees, becoming even smaller. An orc loomed at the sobbing Hobbit but Legolas leapt upon it from a ledge above, cleaving its face into four pieces.  
  
The Troll wasn't finished.  
  
Gimli had been fighting off orcs admirably-for a Dwarf. Yet the Troll seemed to be getting the better of him. It swatted Gimli aside like a doll, hurling him hard into a stone column. Legolas saw his chance to avenge Frodo. The Troll, distracted by the wounded Dwarf, had its back to Legolas. His plan was perfect. Running with all the speed he could muster, Legolas knocked an arrow and threw himself in front of Gimli. The Troll made the mistake of screaming in anger. As soon as it opened its steaming, spike- toothed mouth, the bow of Legolas sung with the note of death and an arrow shot up, embedding itself in the creature's upper palate. Caught off guard, with the end of the arrow in its brain, the Troll moaned and fell back with an echoing boom.  
  
But the damage was done. The Ringbearer had fallen. The most innocent of them all had been taken from them.  
  
*Who will take it now?* he wondered to himself, feeling panic rise in his heart. *Should I? I do not think I should be able-* and he stopped. He felt something growing inside him like a sob. The terror of the Ring was a vice on his throat. His bow began to slip from his fingers, but he caught it again and banished the thought from his mind. Aloud he managed to whisper, "Frodo." It echoed around the silent room.  
  
Aragorn knelt before the Hobbit and picked him up. "We must run before more come. Gandalf, which way leads out?"  
  
The wizard, his eyes dead with sadness, said nothing for a moment. The scream of oncoming orcs shook him back into reality. "This way," he said, and gestured toward the southern door with his orc-grimed sword. "To the Bridge of Khazad-Dûm."  
  
As they took off running, Aragorn let out a cry. "Frodo?"  
  
"I'm alright!" came a small voice. "Put me down. I am not dead."  
  
Legolas thought for a moment that he would burst into tears. He stopped in his tracks and ran back to Aragorn and Frodo, nearly shoving poor Gimli off his feet. Frodo was indeed alive, though a bit pale looking, and breathing hard. He turned to see Legolas' smiling, breathless face and grinned. They had not been lost to each other. Not yet.  
  
Without awaiting an explanation, Aragorn kept running, still holding Frodo in his weakness. Gandalf smiled, and kept sprinting ahead. Legolas knocked an arrow, turned his body and hit an orc in the eye while still running, and he smiled as it met its mark. They were one again. The darkness of Moria would not defeat them.  
  
* * *  
  
Was it Elvish intuition that had granted Legolas the horrible ability to be the first among the Fellowship to see Gandalf's doom spiraling up? The fear that gripped his heart had silenced him. He wanted to scream; "Mithrandir!" but he found himself without even the air to make a sound. The terror of the creature of Morgoth had made him lose all senses. He saw quite clearly the curving arc of the flaming whip as it swung up, and he heard the sound as Gandalf's knees were burned as the thong coiled round them. He wanted to run to the brink of the broken bridge, but he couldn't. He couldn't move, fixed to the place were he stood upon the far side of the chasm. He remembered the nauseous feeling of something holding him back that had afflicted him when the Nazgûl had assailed his envoy at the Ford. This was different. Something inside, not of evil-make, was rooting him to where he stood.  
  
Frodo screamed and then there was silence. A voice, deep and commanding, issued from the crevice.  
  
"Fly you fools!" He was gone.  
  
They stood silent with horror and disbelief, save Frodo who was sobbing freely, fighting Aragorn's strong arms that held him back. Legolas stood open-mouthed, staring at nothing. His lungs burned from running, but he could not breathe. He could not move.  
  
Boromir seized his arm. "Come, Legolas."  
  
He didn't move until the Man physically dragged him out of his stone- still standing position. Stumbling, he ran toward the thin stripes of white light ahead. It was daylight. The sun was shining and beyond, water was running and leaves were glistening. The world did not stop to mourn the passing of the Grey Pilgrim. They ran out, orc arrows whistling behind them, drum beats fading into silence and tears. Legolas stood alone from the others again, staring at the valley below, feeling the wind blow cold against his face, and once again he could not cry.  
  
-Fin-  
  
Continued in Chapter VI - The Council of Galadriel (A considerably less-depressing chapter)  
  
Please o please o please Review! 


	6. Chapter VI The Council of Galadriel

AUTHOR NOTES: This next (and very short) chapter reveals a lot about Legolas' psychological situation: his guilt, his restlessness, etc. I hope it doesn't have too much melodrama. Please keep in mind that Elves feel the most extreme emotions. I do not write such angst lightly, nor as filler. This story is as much a character sketch as a drama.  
  
Chapter VI - The Council of Galadriel  
  
"These trees are strange," Legolas said, placing a long, elegant hand upon the smooth gray bark. "Unlike any I have seen in my homeland or abroad. They must be mallorns."  
  
"What?" Boromir didn't seem to care much for tree-lore.  
  
"Mallorns. We still sing songs of these in Mirkwood. The boles are silver." He gazed up. "And the leaves are golden, see? In the spring they say the trees are full and green, with golden flowers. These golden leaves of winter fall upon the ground and then the woods of Lorien are like a great hall: a roof of emerald, a floor of gold, and columns of silver." Pippin stared up, open-mouthed, and for the first time since Moria, Legolas felt a little less miserable.  
  
Aragorn came to Legolas' side. "Will they serve as shelter?"  
  
"Good luck getting the dwarf in a tree," replied Legolas, and not quietly. Gimli made a sound of irritation. Things had not been going on well between them, especially since they had lost Gandalf. Everyone seemed to be fighting with each other. Frodo had even snapped at Sam. Unease hung all around them with the guilt they all shared, almost as painful as the stabbing sadness that had not lessened.  
  
"And a Hobbit as well!" piped up Sam. "We stay near the ground, if you follow me. All else, well, meaning no offense, but t'ain't natural."  
  
Legolas was getting tired of this. The tree sang under his palm. "Then dig a hole in the ground if that is more to the fashion of your kind," he snapped. "But you had best dig swiftly and deep. These dark times have brought orcs within the borders this fair land. That is what the trees sing of now. I can sense the yrch nearby." He saw Sam's hurt expression through the corner of her eyes and felt a pang of guilt that stayed with him for many hours after. He looked up the nearest tree. He could reach the lowest branch easily, but for a mortal it would take a leg-up. Running lightly and without sound, he went to its bole and leapt up quickly as a panther, catching the branch. As he began to swing his legs up, a stern voice sounded from close above.  
  
"Daro!"  
  
Relief flooded Legolas' mind. He almost kept climbing, for he heard and sensed his kindred of the Southern lands, the Galadhrim. Then he remembered the other weary travelers below. They were the ones the other Elves were worried about. They were his bane now.  
  
Legolas leapt down. Boromir started to say something, but the Elf said, "Be silent. Do not move or speak."  
  
The same voice sounded again, though not hostile this time. They had recognized him, it seemed, by the bow strapped to his back.  
  
"Mae govannen, Legolas Thranduilion. Im Haldir o Galadhrim."  
  
He looked up and saw the silhouettes of three gray-clad sentinels far up in the branches, mostly camouflaged by the night and the leaves.  
  
"Govannas vin gwennen le, Haldir o Lorien," Legolas replied carefully.  
  
"Elves!" whispered Sam. His breath was short with excitement. Legolas felt his heart soothed by the simple Hobbit's wonder. But the eyes of the three Elves above were cold and untrusting. He spoke with them at length a bit more. They were calmer than they seemed, even joking that his companions breathed so loudly that they would have made easy targets in pitch darkness.  
  
"Tula sinome," they urged him. One lowered his hand and smiled.  
  
"Melloneamin," he reminded them. He remembered his mainly Westron-speaking companions, chastised himself, and spoke in the Common Tongue for their benefit. "The Ringbearer. What of him?"  
  
They conversed for a moment, then answered similarly. "Him as well. Bid him come up with you." A slinky rope ladder unfurled, parallel to the bole of the tree. Legolas turned to Frodo and knelt to his height.  
  
"The sentries of Lorien ask for you."  
  
Wonder lit the Hobbit's eyes. "Tell them I am coming. I'm not used to ladders."  
  
Legolas smiled. He had not seen such light in Frodo's countenance since Gandalf had been taken.  
  
* * *  
  
The Elves of Lothlorien were kind and courteous to Legolas. From the moment he arrived they took to him like a brother, like one of their own, though Mirkwood Elves and Lorien Elves were as different as night and day. Haldir introduced him to many of his people, and they all wanted to hear about the Prince's home and the happenings of the Outside, and the quest. He told them all he could, repeating the tale to many listeners.  
  
The Lady of the Golden Wood and her Lord he did not see again for many days. Once a feast was held and he sat near them, but they did not speak to him-not directly. He felt the cool hum of Galadriel's eyes upon him once, and when she lifted them away he felt a note of pain like sorrow. After that, he didn't see her for three weeks.  
  
* * *  
  
One night in Lorien, when the moon was high and full, casting a silver-blue light over the entire peaceful realm, the Lady came to him. Legolas had left the pavilion of his sleeping companions, but he did not wish to seek the company of his own kind at that time. The forest called to him, and him alone. He wandered through the trees, pausing every now and then to gaze at the stars through the boughs, or to listen to the running of Nimrodel, catching hints of its sacred song. Occasionally he rested his palm flat against the smooth bark of the mallorn trees and felt their inner music. Hours passed: still he found no rest, feeling himself drawn onward. A silent voice was calling to him.  
  
"Legolas Greenleaf."  
  
Her arrival did not startle him. He turned, and his heart lifted at the sight of Galadriel. Her gaze held wisdom that was comforting, not daunting. Her pale hand was outstretched toward him; a smile was upon her lips. Still, he paused. The fingers of her hand curved up, beckoning him. He came to her, placing a hand upon his heart, bowing slightly.  
  
"My Lady."  
  
"I wish to speak with you, Thranduil's son. But not here. Will you follow me to my glade?"  
  
His heartbeat rocketed suddenly. He had heard of the Glade of Galadriel in stories many times before, things messengers whispered about when they returned from Lorien. He knew of her Mirror and what it told, he had heard rumors, like myths, of those who had despaired before it, abandoned their quests, dying of broken hearts at the sights they saw. Sensing his anxiety, Galadriel said, "Do not be afraid. You are not powerless. First, we shall only hold council."  
  
She knew. From the moment she had locked eyes with Legolas at his arrival, she had known all about the unebbing sorrow that marred the Elven prince's spirit. She knew about the lie that had burrowed into Legolas' chest, the stories he concocted for his father to make up excuses to see the world outside the Canopy, his dreams to see what was left of the old world before he was forced to depart from it. She knew of Thranduil's suffocating love, his unease, and his cruel reprimands. She knew of the extreme, ceaseless guilt Legolas had harbored since June 20th, since his decisions had been the cause of four deaths. She knew that the knife hanging at his side, though of Elvish-make, was a gift from passing Rangers who amazed him with their reckless freedom. She knew that its blade had tasted its master's blood more than once. She knew he had the scars to prove it.  
  
Before the gaze of Galadriel, Legolas' heart quailed. In spite of himself, he felt his eyes suddenly fill with tears. He was trembling all over, his mouth slightly open. He felt open and raw, empty and spilling out into the night air. Everything he had locked away was displayed before her cool, steady glance. Galadriel touched his arm to balance him. Then her fingers moved and she pulled the fabric of his shirtsleeve up and away. In the dim light, his moon-pale skin glowed like marble. Three small scars were visible.  
  
Legolas genuinely tried to stop himself. It was a heroic effort on his part, but a single tear coursed down his cheek, leaving a gleaming trail, and the reality of his situation was revealed.  
  
"Come with me," was all she said.  
  
-Fin-  
  
Damn, that turned out to be pretty angsty...ergh...Please take a moment to review!  
  
Continued in Chapter VII - Smoke Off the Mirror Frodo and Sam weren't the only members of the Fellowship to gaze into the Mirror...  
  
Elvish:  
  
Govannas vin gwennen le: 'Our Fellowship is in your debt' Tula sinome: 'Come here' Melloneamin: 'My companions' 


	7. Chapter VII Smoke Off the Mirror

AUTHOR NOTES: The first genuine notes of Eowyn appear in this chapter.  
  
Chapter VII - Smoke Off the Mirror  
  
The basin was dark, shimmering with the reflection of the bright stars above the Golden Wood. The water swirled in a way water was not quite meant to move-it pooled and rippled like mercury, beautiful and undulating. Slowly Legolas stepped forward until he saw his own face. It had changed little. A small, healing cut under his right eyebrow was the only new physicality. And yet aught *had* changed indeed: his own eyes frightened him. He seemed centuries older than he really was-but not just older. What had happened? How came he to look so tired and torn?  
  
With effort, Legolas pulled his eyes away from the Mirror and saw Galadriel observing him. He noticed that his hands were gripping the sides of the pedestal, and the knuckles were white. Embarrassed, he relaxed his hands. "Do you advise me to look, Lady?" he asked in a whisper, though he already guessed her answer.  
  
"I cannot advise you in this matter, Legolas. It is your path. Though it forks before you, only *you* can select the road."  
  
He frowned and gazed off into the distant tree line in thought, recalling what she had told him moments before.  
  
*It shows things that were:* what memories might he see? Early on in his life, perhaps? He had seen his mother only in his dreams, and those featuring had come less and less frequently. To see her again, if only as an illusion-perhaps that was more than his heart could handle. A simple word her lips had formed. A single flicker of her eyes. Her laugh! Had he forgotten it? Would it make his heart split in two?  
  
*It shows things that are:* he could see his home now! What was his father doing? Was he well? Selfishly, Legolas wondered if Thranduil missed him as he did. And the encroaching darkness he had left? Was it abated? Would it ever be? His heart stopped. What if his father had taken an injury...or worse? Legolas did not think he would be able to carry on the quest knowing his father suffered without his son by his side.  
  
*And some things that have not yet come to pass....*  
  
No. He could not. The third option was too perilous for his sanity alone. Beyond his own fate, he did not think he could bear to see the final outcome of the quest were it to appear. Or what of the Dark Lord himself? He shuddered.  
  
"This is no palantir." Her voice was suddenly cold, cutting the night air with a new quality. "He cannot see you. One day, maybe. He knows of you. But He cannot see you, not here, not while Nenya protects you."  
  
Legolas looked up swiftly. "He knows of *me*?"  
  
Galadriel lifted her chin. "I guess His mind. He knows there are nine. He knows that one is Elven. Indeed, He even knows that the King of Mirkwood's one child has gone abroad and has not been spotted among the Wood-Elf hosts."  
  
Legolas' mouth opened slightly in disbelief.  
  
"Indeed, He knows you. He has kept his Eye on Mirkwood, too. It is because of He that darkness has fallen under the once-noble boughs of your home. The Spiders grow in number by His will, an evil stirring as it has not since they days of Ungoliant the Black. He has been waiting for *you*, though, as He waits for Isildur's heir, as He waits for the last of us, the Elven Ringbearers. He knows that you are the last son of our people. Because of that, you are His symbolic target."  
  
"What?"  
  
"If He can seize you then it is a message to all our people. Undómiel is out of His grasp, for now. You, however, are heading straight toward Him. Elven blood is worth much to the Dark Lord. Rarely is He given a chance to spill it since the days of the Last Alliance. Beware, Legolas Greenleaf. His arm has grown long." She paused. "Will you look into the Mirror?"  
  
It still glistened wetly before him. He licked his lips and paused one last time. He felt the weight of this information deep within his chest. The wind whistling through the treetops was suddenly very cold.  
  
"He has never touched it," she reminded him.  
  
And so Legolas leaned forward and gazed into the shadowy depths of the Mirror of Galadriel.  
  
* * *  
  
A forest, dim and crowded with trees, humming with the sounds of the wood- and something else, like an ancient, deep voice, low as the center of the earth. An old man in gray, stained rags hobbled between the boles. Stopping, he threw off his tattered hood. Legolas' heart leapt to his throat.  
  
"Mithrandir?"  
  
The image faded, replaced by a long field of tall grass, rippling in the wind like a pale green sea. The sky was dark, a deep navy. Blue stars burned high above.  
  
Then he felt something familiar and altogether evil. Its malice slowed his breath. He felt the pain and nausea that had come upon him when afflicted by the Black Breath. A Nazgûl was doubtlessly approaching, or more than one. Perhaps the entire Nine. His heart was filled with cold fear as a dark shadow crossed the night sky, blocking out the stars in a horrible, endless moment. With its passing, he once again felt an unsteady peace. And then...  
  
The hoof beats of a horse, like the beats of his heart: they were measured to each other, a perfect rhythmic match.  
  
From the dim horizon, a pale gray horse came galloping across the field. Its mane flowed out in the wind like a silver mist. Upon it rode a maiden, Elven-fair. Her golden hair looked like mithril in the moonlight, flashing as it was combed by the wind. Her skin was white, and her face was beautiful and stern. Though she seemed as though she would be cold to the touch, there was a clear, ice blue fire flickering in her eyes in which he sensed a spirit that would melt iron.  
  
He caught his breath, realizing that he found her beautiful, then stopped breathing altogether as another revelation came upon him in afterthought:  
  
"She is mortal." He said it aloud.  
  
The beautiful maiden leaned forward on her horse and rode on, a maiden of the moon, a mortal servant of Varda, so beautiful, so noble. He wanted to touch her glassy skin. He wanted to hear the whisper of her hair.  
  
The elation passed. He chilled again as the previous Shadow returned. He wanted to cry out to her: it followed her! Could she not see it looming overhead, blotting out even the moon? How could she not feel it as he did, a vice upon his heart and lungs? It was gaining. It would consume her soon, her dazzling light swallowed up into its senseless dark.  
  
Without a word she turned her horse to face it. She rose in the stirrups and turned to the evil thing. Under her piercing, unclouded gaze, it disappeared with a silent wail. Legolas let out a loud sigh of relief. And then something remarkable happened.  
  
She noticed him.  
  
The maiden turned to face him as he gazed at her. Without a second thought, he reached out his hand to her. Steadily, she approached.  
  
* * *  
  
"Do not touch the water!"  
  
Legolas snapped back into reality. Lorien. Evening. Silence. His hand was hovering inches above the steaming surface of the Mirror, and he quickly pulled it back in surprise. He noticed cold sweat beaded upon his temples, and a fluttering feeling in his heart. Fear flooded over him as he looked upon Galadriel, realizing she had seen what he had seen, and perceived something growing steadily in his heart, as though he had discovered an amazing idea.  
  
"Who is she?"  
  
The Lady smiled. "I do not need to tell you. You will know her, as your heart has always known her. When she appears before you real, not just in your reveries, you will have no doubt."  
  
"And she is-"  
  
"Yes, Legolas. She is of the Edain." He realizes that they were not speaking aloud, but had lapsed into the mind-speak gifted to their kindred. "Do not fear your heart's words Legolas, but beware. It is late. Go to your companions and rest with them. They will provide you with comfort." He looked at her, unbelieving. "I promise you that by the time you reach the pavilion you will find peace of the mind and spirit. Farewell." With another knowing smile, Lady Galadriel turned silently and disappeared into the night.  
  
Legolas stood alone for a moment, listening to the hard ministrations of his heart. *A mortal maiden,* he thought. His breath became suddenly short, but he was happy. He was euphoric, overwhelmed with the beauty of the night, the gloriousness of the entire world. *I think...this must be...* He stopped and smiled up at the stars.  
  
He had never been in love: not true love, not the thing he heard of in songs and stories, the glow that he had seen when Silindë used to kiss Duilwen, when Aragorn and Arwen's arms became a tangle, an unbreakable knot. This went against all he had ever known, all that his *people* had ever known. Never before had an Elf felt as strong a tie to a mortal maiden as he now felt. Never. Of that he was certain. Indeed, some of the elders had spoken of something more between the long-gone Aegnor and Andreth. It did not seem the same, nor as certain. For in that instant, in the silence canopied by the leaves and the stars beyond, Legolas knew that whoever the woman was, he would find her. He needed her. Of that he was certain.  
  
He finally walked away, but felt as though he were in a dream once more, as though he were back inside the slow, swift world of the Mirror. Finally coming to his senses, he realized he had wandered back to the pavilion of the Fellowship. He found the cot set out for him, between Boromir and Aragorn. Boromir was fast asleep, with his mouth slightly open. He had a look upon his face like a sleeping child-the most at ease that Legolas had seen him for many days. The Elf smiled.  
  
Settling into bed, Legolas noticed Aragorn looking at him. "Frodo and Sam are gone," Aragorn said. The Elf looked to the Hobbits' beds and found that two were indeed empty. "Have you seen them?"  
  
"No, but wherever they are they will be able to find their way back." He lay down and folded his hands on his breast. But Aragorn's eyes were still upon him. "What is it?"  
  
"Are you alright, my friend?"  
  
"I am."  
  
"You seem...different somehow."  
  
Legolas exhaled a long, quiet breath with mock irritation. "I'm fine. Now go to sleep, Aragorn, or we will wake Boromir with our talk."  
  
Gimli let out a snore.  
  
Trying not to laugh, the Elf and the Man gradually fell asleep in the ways of their people. Each had a dream of the woman that enchanted them upon first sight, each held similar fates: for in both of their stories, the Quendi and the Edain were joined as one.  
  
-Fin-  
  
Reviewers go to heaven.  
  
Continued in Chapter VIII - The Mark of the Shadow, a scary chapter with more action. 


	8. Chapter VIII The Mark of the Shadow

AUTHOR NOTES: I'm letting things slow down a bit in this chapter, but they'll speed up in the following ones. Thanks for sticking with me so far. I've written passages from every single planned chapter in this whole story. So far, the estimated chapter count is THRITY-TWO! Crikey! Stick around. Hopefully, I won't disappoint you.  
  
Chapter VIII - The Mark of the Shadow  
  
Haldir descended the riverbank. He was a very tall and stern-looking Elf, with a sharp profile, dark-golden hair and blue-gray eyes: a Lorien child through and through. He was carrying nine bundles in his slender arms, one of which he gave to each member of the Fellowship. Legolas unbound the small parcel and a Lorien cloak unfolded, light as silk. It seemed to be the color of mist uncurling off the sea after a storm, though as he turned the cloth in his hands it took in the color of moss-covered trees, then dark navy as a night sky. Smoothing the shimmering folds between his fingers, Legolas watched the colors ooze and shift like mercury and oil combined.  
  
"Prince Legolas."  
  
Legolas lifted his head, feeling his consciousness shake off the lulling trance of what was never again to be Lothlorien. Only here had he found some peace of mind, even beginning to forgive himself for the darkness of the past, yet now they had to leave. In such intangible ways worked the evil of Sauron.  
  
Galadriel smiled at him as he approached, and in her arms she held a long thin bundle. As he came forward, she began to speak.  
  
"To you I give a bow of our people. It is longer and stouter than the bows of Mirkwood, yet I believe it shall serve you well. And with it, a quiver of arrows." Eyes wide with awe, Legolas unwrapped the presents. The weapons hummed with subtle power in his hands. Galadriel continued, "The arrows of Lorien never stray from their targets, and are always swift as they are lethal." He accepted her gifts, speechless in truth. Since they had arrived he had secretly coveted the bows of Haldir and his guard. Had she read that in his mind as well?  
  
He started when her cool hand was placed upon his cheek.  
  
"You will see her again," Galadriel said, but with a voice only he could hear.  
  
Legolas felt a strange wonder, seeing once more that the Lady of Lorien had perceived of the events played out in her Mirror, yet judged them not. What wisdom she held, she who was older than ages and wiser than nearly all upon Middle-earth: he was glad to feel in his heart the doubtless truth of the love she held for him, like the mother he had lost so long ago.  
  
As his companions received their gifts in turn, Legolas closed his eyes and listen to song of the bow. Without thought, his finger strayed to the bowstring, and he plucked it once. There was a note not unlike the Gurthlindë of his kindred, yet it was somehow vastly different. It was less ruthless, less to the sole purpose of killing. The note of the Lorien bow spoke of the lives of trees long turned to mulch, of flowers that had bloomed and died off in the same instant, of fallen warriors' blood mingling with mountain streams, of the old kingdoms of Beleriand that had been destroyed. It stirred Legolas' heart not to the thought of home, strangely enough. He thought of 'her.' The nameless one. The maiden of the moon.  
  
"Ithilwen." He named her, once silently to himself, then as a whisper so low that the rustling leaves above muted his tongue. The members of the Fellowship were climbing into the boats, but Galadriel listened. She turned to him, after having handed Frodo a gleaming vial, and smiled knowingly.  
  
Legolas felt Pippin's eyes upon him. He turned to see the youngest of the Hobbits looking at him in a new way-one of genuine wonder that seemed also like confusion. Legolas walked by him without uttering a word. *Amazing,* he thought, *That Pippin of all people is the only one to truly perceive the change that has come over me. The Halflings are indeed remarkable folk.*  
  
Yet there was one other race for which Legolas had found an unusual respect.  
  
The dwarf, Gimli, had amazed them all, but the Prince of Mirkwood was especially impressed. For in Gimli, Legolas glimpsed something familiar: something he had heard in Aragorn's laugh, and seen in the twinkle of Arwen's eyes-even in himself. It had happened one night in Lorien. Gimli had disappeared for some time, yet he wandered into the pavilion of the Fellowship to find only Legolas awake. From a sheen glistening upon the dwarf's eyes, Legolas was able to tell that he too had been summoned to gaze in the Mirror. He too had heard Galadriel's words.  
  
Gimli came in quickly, not noticing Legolas' keen eyes upon him. He did not mumble to himself as he used to, not falling into his strange, brass-sounding tongue but remained silent. The moonlight revealed the unshed tears in his eyes, and they looked strange upon the face of the gruff creature. Yet it was in that instance that Legolas first felt a kinship with Gimli: something beyond their forced loyalty to each other in support of Frodo. Galadriel had healed them, and now she united them. It was exhilarating.  
  
The next day, Legolas did not accept the invitation of Haldir and his brothers, Rúmil and Orophin. They had entreated him to come hunting, but someone else had sparked his curiosity. So instead of disappearing amongst his own kind as he usually did while in Lorien, Legolas approached Gimli by a stream and said, "Tell me, Gimli son of Gloin, of the Lonely Mountain. I have not been there since the Funeral of Thorin Oakenshield."  
  
Gimli had been startled by the Elf, but quickly hid his fear. There was unease and genuine suspicion in his eyes as he asked, "What does an Elf care for word of Erebor?"  
  
But Legolas was always quick with words, "And what yet does a Dwarf care for the words of one Elven woman?"  
  
Gimli's face went red with rage. He drew himself up to his full height, still barely reaching halfway up Legolas' chest and bellowed in a voice that jarred the peaceful clearing: "Galadriel is not 'one Elven woman.' Galadriel is wisdom and beauty. She is-she is-" and he stopped. He realized what had just occurred, and now his face went red with embarrassment, not fury. Legolas smiled, and they sat and talked until the sun was low. At the feast that night they sat together and spoke of their homes, of their fathers, of their mothers and of their friends. From that time forth, Legolas and Gimli were almost comically inseparable. The other Elves were amazed and even a bit presumptuous, but Legolas didn't care. He now had one more ally in the oncoming dark.  
  
He had wanted to be able to speak alone with Frodo, but the Hobbit had kept to himself or to Sam. He was changed since the night of the Mirror, the same night Legolas had seen his Ithilwen. Even Boromir, the headstrong one, seemed softened by Lorien, and doubtlessly by Galadriel. He had talked for many hours with Lord Celeborn, and the Sylvan Elves had given him tours of their flets. He had gained a trust for the lovely and the ancient. He cast no suspicious eye on anything anymore. Legolas did not sense the Shadow upon Boromir while they were in Lorien.  
  
Yet Lorien had ended. Climbing into the boat with Gimli, Legolas looked to Boromir absentmindedly. The Man now seemed more perceptive to subtleties, and he felt the Elf's gaze and returned it. That was when the same unease returned. As their boats floated away from the pebbly shore, as the voices of the Elves faded into the wind, never to be heard again in songs of their land, Legolas found he did not like the way Boromir looked at him. Moreover, he did not like the eyes that the Man cast upon Frodo. Lorien disappeared and suddenly they were thrust back into the realm of shadows and filmy deceit that was as real as the wind, but, like the wind, impossible to grasp. It domed the whole river, entwined around each of them. Legolas only caught fleeting moments: he reached out his hand and caught a mallorn leaf, glinting and spiraling in the oncoming storm, and then night fell and the darkness grew.  
  
* * *  
  
The days upon the river went by quickly at first, but as the dangers increased their trek seemed toilsome and endless. Orcs darted between the trees on the far bank, sometimes sending a rain of arrows that narrowly missed the travelers. Jagged rocks raked the undersides of their boats, and rapids churned the water to foam: currents strong enough to pull a grown Man apart. Fear was a constant mist hanging over the Fellowship. As they went further and further away from Lorien, Legolas had grown more and more mistrustful of Boromir, but he said naught to anyone. He thought more evil would be spread. He spoke little to anyone, even to Gimli. Sometimes he trailed his fingers into the water of the river Anduin, but it was stronger and more powerful than the Forest River of his homeland, and he did not know its song.  
  
To take himself away from the gray days of dodging arrows and lying low in the boats, Legolas fell into dreams. He could bring himself back to the field he had traveled in the Mirror, but he could never find her. He searched the place in his mind: he sprinted for many miles, but the land did not end. No mountains or trees dotted the horizon-it simply went on forever. He called to her in his mind: "Ithilwen! Vanimelda, tiro nin. Tiro nin, khelekwen. Manke naa lle?" He called, but was met with only silence. He made promises to the wind and the stars and the empty field. "Tenna'ento lye omenta." He sang songs aloud for his companions to hear, but the sorrow they heard in his voice was for the lost one alone. He had forgotten all else. He was simply following the river.  
  
* * *  
  
They were upon the river, paddling at night to stay out of the sight of the orcs that Aragorn and Legolas had sensed, when a worse threat arrived. The icy grip upon Legolas' heart came swiftly, and the Elf instantly recognized it as the fear he had perceived when he saw the nameless shadow in the Mirror of Galadriel, as the mind-killing pain he had felt upon the Bridge of Mitheithel. That evil was approaching at an inhuman speed. The glade was pulsing with it. He felt the silent trembling of the trees that were also afraid. Birds silenced and crickets ceased. He glared up at the stars, seeking an answer. They burned brightly-ominously cold and blue high above him, yet no shadow marred the sky. What was happening?  
  
Aragorn seemed to have sensed the foreboding danger as well. He signaled first to Legolas then to Boromir for them to land their boats upon the riverbank. They did so as swiftly and silently as possible. The Hobbits' eyes were wide with genuine fear. Frodo was bent over, breathing hard, grasping the shoulder that had been penetrated by the Morgul blade: Lorien could not heal him. Even Gimli was nervously murmuring his course Dwarvish tongue under his breath. Legolas focused upon keeping his mind clear.  
  
Gimli noticed him constantly staring up at the stars. "What is it, Elf?"  
  
"Be silent, Gimli, I pray you," Legolas whispered back. Gimli noticed that whatever Legolas felt, it was more nearby now-he had not diverted his eyes from the sky for a good five minutes.  
  
"The sky-?" Gimli began, but Legolas threw up a hand to silence him.  
  
Frodo climbed up the bank and sat at Legolas' feet. Something instinctive made him want to be near to the archer-perhaps it was their kinship as the two survivors of a Nazgûl assault in the past. Perhaps it was because if anyone could protect them at a distance, it was the Elf. Seated, the Hobbit barely went past the tall Elf's knee. He followed Legolas' line of sight, scanning the sky for whatever this evil presence was.  
  
The night split with the keening of a fell voice that could be one thing alone. More terrible than the voices he heard in his head upon the borders of Rivendell, this cry, though wordless, seemed to be calling to *him*. He felt an agonizing twisting in his chest as though something had reached inside him and held his heart in its fist. Legolas drew an arrow with lethal speed though this numbing sickness had suddenly seized him, and aimed it at the heavens. The Mirror's vision flickered in his memory. The cries grew louder, more terrible, and closer by. Frodo was trembling near Legolas' calf, close to tears. He felt the Hobbit cower to the ground, shielding his head and ears with his arms.  
  
Then the Shadow came upon them.  
  
Legolas' heart froze as the fell beast glared at him, meeting his eyes exactly. Like poison-dipped daggers they bore into him and distributed their malice through every part of his being, and he felt himself overwhelmed with fear. A force so sinister and dark descended upon him that it forced him to shut his eyes and shudder. Chills ran through his nerves and nausea clouded his mind. But the bow of Galadriel hummed in his hands, and he felt as though he heard the Lady's voice in his head once more: strong and calming. He remembered Ithilwen in the Mirror. He remembered her masterful gaze. He could fight for her.  
  
So the last son born to the Elves upon Middle-earth stretched his arm back and whispered with icy conviction: "Elbereth Gilthoniel."  
  
The arrow shot through the air like a comet and crossed the river in a flash. There was a horrible cry as it hit the flying thing where its ribs must have lain. It fell from its place in the sky, crashing somewhere far away on the distant bank, and the stars it had blocked blinked back into view. Peace, unsteady and filmy, fell over the glade.  
  
She had saved him.  
  
-Fin-  
  
Where are you going? To review? Très bien.  
  
Continued in the next chapter: The Weakness of Men (*cough* BOROMIR *cough*)  
  
Elvish:  
  
Ithilwen: composite of 'moon' and 'maiden' Tiro nin: 'look at me,' as in 'here I am, come find me' Khelekwen: composite of 'ice' and 'maiden' Manke naa lle: 'where are you?' Tenna'ento lye omenta: 'until we meet again' 


	9. Chapter IX The Weakness of Men

AUTHOR NOTES: More jumping around, some bloodletting, and some more god- forsaken foreshadowing. I just can't get enough. Here's Chapter 9, and I humbly entreat you to enjoy it.  
  
Chapter IX - The Weakness of Men  
  
These orcs were swifter than their kin who had attacked Mirkwood upon that fateful day which now seemed so long ago. They held their blades with a strange, terrifying confidence and wielded them well. Legolas, underestimating his foe, lost his footing when one scimitar raked against his ribs, slicing clean through his tunic and the pale skin beneath. The pain was acute and unexpected. He grabbed at his side with his free hand and felt himself fall to the earth, and as he fell he saw his own blood upon the leaves below. He hit hard, unable to catch himself. In a moment, the huge beast was upon him. It straddled him and, gripping one of Legolas' shoulders, it flipped the Elf onto his back with amazing strength. Then it raised its weapon high above its head and bellowed a terrifying war cry as it was brought down. As the blade screamed through the air, heading for his throat, Legolas felt genuine fear. His eyes flew wide as he realized how swiftly his life was about to end.  
  
Suddenly the orc had no head. A black fountain of blood replaced its snarling face. But he was not safe yet. The falling body still clutched a jagged scimitar. Regaining his wits, Legolas rolled out of the way, using his hips to buck the headless orc off of him. There was a hard thud as the falling edge was embedded in the earth where his neck had been a moment before.  
  
Smiling to himself in a wild, dwarvish way was Gimli, his axe sticky with orc gore.  
  
"Diola lle. My thanks," Legolas said, rising to his feet, cursing himself for having fallen before his companion. He knew it would be long before Gimli let off the subject of an Elf falling flat on his face.  
  
But Gimli was all concern now. "You're hurt." A red stain was growing across Legolas' side. He felt blood begin to run down his leg. Nausea from blood loss was beginning to set in. Being Elvish, the wound would clot quickly and leave a scar that would fade within a couple hundred years, but for now he had to ignore it.  
  
"This is nothing. Have you seen Frodo?"  
  
"No, indeed. I've lost track of the Hobbits completely."  
  
Legolas winced: his movement had made the cut tear deeper. Perhaps this was not as easily mended as he had assumed. The news of the Halflings disappearance darkened his spirits even more. He thought of Baran and Silindë's perishing. *No,* he thought to himself. *Let them not share the same fate.* They would not. They were not Elves, they had not the same unwritten doom that Elves met when outnumbered by the yrch. But they were far from safe. His train of thought was broken as the call of a horn split the air.  
  
* * *  
  
It was over. They had failed.  
  
Legolas, Aragorn and Gimli stood silent and afraid over the body of Boromir. The tall, hard-eyed Man had died with four arrows embedded in his torso, his blood-slicked mouth slightly open, icy gray eyes staring up at the trees, his face smeared with gore. Blood soaked the earth around him and covered his companions' hands. Legolas could smell it on him. He wondered if he would ever be able to get the scent of Boromir's blood out of his skin.  
  
If he had come sooner, if he had not followed Gimli, if he had not suddenly felt that strange wave of panic upon hearing of Frodo's disappearance: he would have fought with Boromir. He could have taken the arrows. They would have succeeded in the end, with an Elf and a strong Man fighting back-to- back. It was so simple. Why had he followed Gimli? Why hadn't he thought of the others? Why-*why* had he panicked like that? He thought bitterly of the Ring. Had it taken a hold of him as well? He stopped. His mind was reeling. *How could the Ring possibly tempt me? This was not supposed to happen. I am an Elf. I am immune. I turned from its touch, I never thought of it before-this day.*  
  
"We must give him a funeral," he stated simply.  
  
"We don't have the time," replied Gimli. "Merry and Pippin are most likely still alive, but they won't last long in the clutches of the enemy. We should go after them. There is hope there."  
  
"No!" Legolas said, almost shouting. Gimli took a step back, afraid of the wild look in his companion's eyes, wary of his taught shoulders. "I have lost too many friends already, and I was denied of the ability to give them proper rites. They were taken and no trace was ever found."  
  
"That wasn't your fau-" Aragorn began, but Legolas wheeled on him, shooting him a look so venomous that it would have frozen a lesser man's heart.  
  
"Leave it," Legolas said. He knelt by Boromir's cold body and touched his hand to the Man's brow. "He needed me before and I did not help him. But I can do this. In this there is time."  
  
"THERE IS NO TIME!" Gimli yelled. Yet Legolas didn't even flinch. It was as though he had not heard the dwarf's bellow though it echoed around them and made Aragorn fearful of enemies who might have heard. Legolas was as silent and cold as the corpse before him. Aragorn had never seen his friend act this way. Indeed, he had never even seen an Elf act as though his own sanity was in question. Legolas was hiding something: something deeper than the torment of losing two companions to the Shadow, and now the four most innocent of them all. It was present in the steady hum of his breath, in the strange light that had been kindled in his piercing, gray eyes.  
  
*Why did I think of the Ring? Do I desire power? Do I desire-?* He stopped. He remembered Ithilwen and suddenly he wanted to scream. He opened his mouth, but it took a moment for the sound to come out.  
  
"Get one of the boats," said the Elf in a way that made the others instantly obey.  
  
* * *  
  
Time did not exist in Rohan. As soon as he had stepped upon the smooth, grassy plains of that land, Legolas had felt time stop. He knew things were still moving, for he saw the grass ripple and shimmer like waves upon a stormy lake, and he knew the wind was running through his hair, but the motion seemed slow and steady. It was like to the feeling he had known while in Lorien, but vastly different. There was something less ancient, more fresh and young about the halting sensation. It was not unpleasant. It was enticing. It was like the difference between a human and an Elf: essentially, they were the same, yet there were the subtleties and awesome dissimilarity. He knew that something here was waiting for him.  
  
And there was also something distinctly troubling in the air. It was very thin and nearly undetectable, yet Legolas swore that he could sense something alien in the breeze. It pulled at part of him he had never felt: a piece of his soul that he had hidden away.  
  
He could smell salt on the wind.  
  
* * *  
  
Upon first seeing the flaxen-haired Man high upon his light gray steed, Legolas tried hard not to stare. The Man's face held a strange quality which he was sure he held to be familiar, but he could not place its origin in his mind. The blue-gray eyes were cold, but the face had something gentle in it as well. The Man was trying to hide this vulnerability now. He looked upon the three companions with disdain and apprehension.  
  
"And are you Elvish folk?"  
  
Legolas had decided to remain silent, as to allow Aragorn to deal with this Man who seemed more irksome than intriguing. But he started at this strange inquiry. The Man was being absurd. Was it not obvious? His hood was thrown off his head, dark hair whistling in the wind, ears easily visible if not for the other signs: his build, his eyes, the intangible essence that separated Elf from Man. Was so little known of his people in the Southlands? Didn't they ever pass this way? Or was he a myth, a curiosity come to life?  
  
"No," Aragorn replied steadily. "Only one of us is: Legolas, of the People of Northern Mirkwood."  
  
Legolas received a slew of stares and hard looks. Embarrassed, he had to remind himself that Elves must have indeed been scarce in the Southlands, and that these people had doubtlessly never seen an Elf before. It was discomforting to feel the yellow-haired riders' eyes travel up and down his person, seeking irregularities. Their gazes rested on his face for the most part, or a bit to the right or left to see the subtle peaks atop his ears. They looked again at Aragorn, noting that the Man was distinctly unlike one of their own, yet not completely akin to an Elf-or at least, *this* Elf. They were similar, and yet not so.  
  
At last, the rider lifted his gaze from Legolas and returned to speaking with Aragorn. His name was Eomer. He was the chief of the Riddermark, whatever that was. There were the Rohirrim. Their horses were tall and proud, rivaling even the beautiful Elven steeds he had seen in Rivendell.  
  
As Aragorn spoke, Legolas sat down on the grass, tilting his head back to feel the caress of the sun. He did not like looking at Eomer or even hearing his voice. There was something about the Man that caused a strange stirring inside him, as though he was supposed to know him. Yet Legolas had never been to the South all of his long life. The quest had brought him as far as he had ever been. And the Rohirrim did not venture to the North. They had no reason. What was this feeling?  
  
The talk turned to Lorien for some reason. Legolas snapped back into attention, rising to stretch his legs. Still not fully listening, he suddenly realized that Gimli's voice had risen above Eomer's, and that the dwarf had drawn himself up to his full, diminutive height. Galadriel was being denounced. That was a foolish mistake.  
  
Eomer delivered a cheap, human insult about Gimli's height. Legolas, who was already sick of being in the Man's presence, knocked an arrow before any of the surrounding mortals had time to draw breath. He leveled the tip of the dart with Eomer's forehead.  
  
"He stands not alone. You would die before your stroke fell."  
  
Eomer stared at him in an aggressive way, obviously afraid, and also surprised by the Elven voice. Legolas did not blink. He stared long and hard at the Man, revealing in slight the supremacy that was his people's birthright: the ability to reveal a segment of their power in the form of their wrath. It was radiating off of him, and Eomer felt it, and his heart quailed.  
  
Aragorn stepped between them. Legolas let his fury melt, but continued to glare at Eomer, though now he did so in an effort to figure out where exactly he had seen the Man's face before. Eomer did not like being so examined, and his speech faltered a little. Defeated, Legolas turned away. Still netted in by the thicket of spears, he had little place to go. Slowly, he approached a young rider whose beard had not begun to grow. The human's youth and curiosity let Legolas come near enough to stroke his horse's muzzle. The horse, receptive to the Elf's touch, eagerly moved forward. Legolas smiled and softly said, "Lle naa vanima, belegohtar."  
  
A few feet away, one rider whispered to another: "See? I told you that Elves could bewitch animals. He's saying a spell or something. That horse will probably go lame within a week, mark my words."  
  
Irritated, Legolas ceased talking and lifted his hand, glaring at the Man who had whispered in the accusatory fashion. The human showed defiance, but visible unease. Legolas was sick of this. He did not like the Rohirrim. They were blind and stupid, ignorant as...no, not as Dwarves. Gimli had proven him wrong. They were ignorant as orcs. Time was being wasted. Merry and Pippin were still in need.  
  
Legolas heart leapt in his chest. Merry and Pippin! He immediately turned his attention back to the conversation. Aragorn was inquiring as to whether or not the Riders of Rohan had come upon a band of Orcs.  
  
They had.  
  
Legolas stepped forward next to Aragorn. Eomer shifted back a little. The Elf asked, "Did you find two Halflings?"  
  
"Halflings?"  
  
"They would be small," Aragorn explained. "Only children to your eyes."  
  
Eomer blinked in confusion. "We saw no children. You may search the corpses." He looked down, suddenly seeming culpable under the Three Hunters' stare. "We left none alive."  
  
Legolas' heart stopped. He felt rage and despair flare up inside him. Aragorn had apparently sensed the same thing and caught Legolas' shoulder. The Elf and the Ranger stared at each other for a moment, utterly bewildered. Gimli sputtered, and whispered something mournful in Khuzdul.  
  
Eomer whistled. Two horses were brought forward. Legolas heard angry whispers among the riders, questioning Eomer's lenience. It had surprised Legolas that the proud Man had folded, even to Aragorn. Gimli was strangely afraid of riding, so Legolas offered to share a steed. As they parted from the group Legolas knew, much to his annoyance, that they were all destined to meet up again.  
  
He was falling into sickly fear, fighting it all the while. No. He would not allow the Hobbits to have suffered so. They were not meant to. The Valar were not so cruel.  
  
Ahead of them, the forest of Fangorn loomed. Something was moving in the shadows there. Legolas felt himself smile unconsciously; relieved to take the comfort in the dangers and the ancient beauty of trees once more.  
  
-Fin-  
  
Please review.  
  
Continued in Chapter 10 - The Perils of Fangorn (Scary Saruman encounter ahead)  
  
Elvish:  
  
Diola lle: 'Thank you' Lle naa vanima, belegohtar: 'You are magnificent, mighty warrior' 


	10. Chapter X The Perils of Fangorn

Chapter X - The Perils of Fangorn  
  
The first dream was during broad sunlight, though even day was dimmed in Fangorn. They were picking their way through the dense woods carefully, and already had come upon signs of two Hobbits among the roots, and some marks that were strange to them all. They had to lead the Rohiric horses through, and the beasts were almost as uneasy as Gimli, who seemed to be more terrified of the old trees than he had been of the Balrog. As Legolas stepped lightly through the woods, he left the tracking to Aragorn and slipped out of consciousness. The forest seemed to be almost steaming: the air throbbed with the voices of many unseen things. The breeze was a hot breath on the backs of their necks that made them turn around occasionally, to see if something had come up behind them.  
  
Legolas liked his horse. He had been told that his name was Arod. A tall gray stallion, Arod was slender and sleek, but as strong as a dragon and swift as the wind. But the horse was troubled upon entering Fangorn and every now and then, his elvish rider had to pause and whisper soothing words into his downy ears.  
  
As the hot wind tickled the hairs on the back of his neck, Legolas imagined himself far away. He was running over a moonlit glade as fast as his feet could take him, leaping over roots and streams as gracefully as a deer, as the Stag he could never catch. Then he was running beside the Stag. They were neck and neck. Their feet pounded into the earth, measured and exact, the beat of a drum. They were swift and strong, like a silent war cry flying over the land. Then the Stag's hooves changed to the hooves of a horse, and then the whole creature transformed into a foam-white steed, tall and proud. The antlers melted away and vaporized in the wind, becoming part of a gleaming mane. Legolas reached out an arm and touched the horses' side and they both came to a stop at a silent agreement.  
  
The horse stood perfectly still, nostrils dilated, coat steaming in the cold night. Legolas circled it, admiring its form and strength. It was the image of equine perfection. He came nearer, and made to run a hand though its mane. Suddenly, the horse reared up and neighed, pawing the air with its hooves. Taken aback, Legolas darted out of the way as the hooves sliced the air near his head. He backed away until the horse calmed down. He knew that this creature, like the Stag, was not his to master-it was his to admire, to revere, but not to own.  
  
Aragorn said something and Legolas snapped back into reality. Night had fallen. They tied the horses up to the least intimidating-looking tree and built a small fire using only fallen wood. His two companions were wary of the forest, but Legolas felt relieved. The tree behind him seemed to embrace his form as he leaned back onto its trunk. He could feel its life essence, and looking up, he saw its branches lean toward the flames, like a beggar who warms his hands by a fire. He smiled, and turned to Aragorn.  
  
The Man hunched over the fire looked older than he had ever appeared to Legolas. He stared into the flames with an expression of both defeat and guilt, his arms hugging the Lorien cloak to his tall, wiry form.  
  
"Aragorn, what troubles you?" the Elf inquired softly.  
  
"Everything, for everything has gone amiss since I took leadership of our Fellowship." The human's eyes were dead, his mouth a hard line.  
  
Legolas smiled gently, staring into the bright blue part of the fire. "You are too harsh upon yourself, Aragorn. You are mighty among my people, mightier still among Men. You are Isildur's heir, descendant of the line of Elendil. If you are to give up now, what are the rest of us to do?"  
  
Aragorn looked darkly at his companion. "Why do *you* stay, Legolas? You may yet leave this world and live free and safe among your own kind, no matter how strong Sauron becomes."  
  
Immediately Aragorn regretted his words. Legolas' expression was shocked and hurt, and the light in his gray eyes was flickering as violently as the fire before them. "This is my *home*, Aragorn. Do you forget I was born here? Long ago though it was, I have known no other place. And when the time comes when I too must cross to Eressëa, Middle- earth shall still be my home." Then with an icy threat in his voice Aragorn had never before heard, Legolas said: "Do not forget that."  
  
They sat in silence. Gimli's eyes darted between his comrades, wary of the uneasiness between the two. Frustration in an Elf? Unheard of! Even Aragorn was not easily stressed. The Dwarf felt himself becoming agitated by his companions' behavior. The woods had already made him frightened, but he felt more and more nervous now. It was as though something was approaching. Did they feel it, too?  
  
Legolas glanced around the forest shadows, hiding his anxiety with an air of supposed carelessness. "Who wishes for the first watch?"  
  
"I'll take it, friend," Gimli volunteered.  
  
"Very well. Goodnight, Gimli, Aragorn," the Elf said wearily. Legolas lay back in the cradling roots of the tree and folded his slender hands on his breast, letting himself sink into another dream.  
  
* * *  
  
"You have traveled so far from your home," the voice whispered, cool and calm. It was a woman's lilt. At first, Legolas wondered if Lady Galadriel had extended her clairvoyance into his very mind though many miles separated them. Alone in the glade in his dream, he looked around, trying to find the source of the voice.  
  
"I wonder what it is you seek..."  
  
No, it was as though the voice came from inside his very being, near the center of his chest, vibrating like a bowstring's pulse. It was not Galadriel's voice. It was unlike an Elven tone. Yet it seemed unlike a human voice, for it did something to him. It made him want to cry, and to run as fast as he could, and to yell a war cry, and to write endless songs in Quenya, and to be born again.  
  
"In you I see something that I have known all my life, and something alien and strange. I must master that."  
  
If a voice could smile, this voice had done just that.  
  
"Where are you?" he called. The voice ceased. Fearful he added: "Don't leave me here, Ithilwen."  
  
Conjured by her name, he saw the grass part a few feet away. The wind picked up and tossed the airy fabric of a white dress. He saw golden hair flying in the breeze. The yellow strands were blown a back a little, revealing only part of her face. He stared and saw nothing. Only her eyes were clear: they were a cold gray-blue, like a cloudy sky, but there was gentleness and vulnerability deep in their depths. Their master tried to hide this as the face turned away from his gaze.  
  
But Legolas felt something in his torso, something like hunger. He felt propelled forward, eager, ravenous and a little afraid. She did not move. He was a few inches from her now. He felt her breath. It stung his skin in a way that was not uncomfortable. It pulled him forward. It was like being called. It echoed throughout the glade. Very slowly, Legolas reached up and placed a hand upon her turned cheek. Her face, hidden by her hair, was unreadable, but her skin was warm. It was hot against his fingers. As slowly, she reached up and lifted away the veiling strands from her face-  
  
* * *  
  
Something unnamable made him wake with a start, flying to sit straight up. Legolas' eyes almost immediately focused on the figure a few feet ahead. He could sense his companions on either side also glaring at the intruder: an old man in stained rags, bent with unknown age, peering at them from under a shadowy hood. A gray beard spilled onto the intruder's chest, flecked with darker strands. The mouth was grim, the eyes dark, ominous glitters under the hood.  
  
Legolas' heart leapt in his throat as he remembered the image in the Mirror of Galadriel: yet that man had become Mithrandir. Could this be? Yes! He *must* be! For then Legolas felt something urging him forward, something familiar and soothing. It was almost like a trance, almost like a spell...  
  
"One little prince hath strayed too far, I think."  
  
The voice was inside his head. It was not heard, but horribly felt. It was a snake sliding over his neck, coiling around his throat. He felt a paralyzing wave of fear, his jaw trembling with panic. His lungs constricted. The ground was cold beneath him. The sky was dark and cloudless. The trees were no longer friendly but sinister, closing in. He felt their roots inch toward them, moving through the earth like enormous worms, the gnarled branched reaching down, curling over. How foolish he was! That feeling, that feeling of fairness that had called before-  
  
He tried to stop himself. It was a heroic effort on his part, but Legolas could not help but look into the shaded eyes of the old man. And in that instant, something horrible happened. The thing knew him. With one look, the old man had seen everything. There was no doubt left in Legolas' mind, and he regretted with all his heart that he had not followed his initial instincts. This was one of the Istari, and one of great power, with an eye that could pierce even the mind of one of the Older Children of Iluvatar. There was only one among them who could have achieved that.  
  
Saruman.  
  
He couldn't move. Nothing, not one limb of his body would obey his command. He knew his knife lay a few inches away, just out of reach. He was vulnerable! *Not like this,* he thought to himself, beginning to tremble, *Not like this.* But it was too late. With one look, Saruman of Many Colors had rendered one of the Eldar defenseless. He wished his companions would forgive him for his failure to them all. He had let them down once again. He had given in. In one moment he had been taken.  
  
But then another strange occurrence happened. To Legolas' left, Aragorn stirred. The Shadow had no hold upon him. He rose slowly, but by his own will. Standing tall, the Man's voice rang out and Legolas felt it slowly melt the paralysis that had fallen upon him.  
  
"Come warm yourself by the fire, Father, if it is your will."  
  
The old man winced back at the words. His glamoury broken, he sank back in to the surrounding shadows and disappeared into the darkness.  
  
Legolas gasped as air rushed back into his lungs and fell back onto the grass, elated. It was a wonder to be alive. Yet even as he was freed, he drifted away from reality, from Aragorn and Gimli bent over him in concern, for in his dreams he knew another friend was waiting.  
  
-Fin-  
  
Please review  
  
Continued in Chapter Eleven: A Randir Vithren (O Pilgrim Grey) 


	11. Chapter XI A Randir Vithren

Chapter XI - A Randir Vithren (O Pilgrim Grey)  
  
Legolas awoke to a cool rain upon his brow. He knew that beyond Fangorn's eves, there was a downpour of epic proportions, but under the dense forest canopy, a light drizzle was all that was to be felt. Elves are not accustomed to unconsciousness: even in rest their minds dance. Thus Legolas gasped for air as he came to, franticly unaware of who owned the hands that lay upon his shoulders.  
  
"Legolas, it is I, Aragorn. Can you hear me?"  
  
Relief came like a warm, welcomed flood. "Yes. Aragorn." His eyelids fluttered, then his vision focused. Aragorn. Gimli. Silence in a vibrant wood. Another thought flew to his mind. "The horses..."  
  
"They're gone, friend," said Gimli. "I did not like them, but now even I mourn their loss. I am sorry; Arod is gone."  
  
Wearily he sat up, a bit embarrassed about having been rendered defenseless in front of his friends. The forest was strangely silent. The voices he had sensed before had extinguished, as though in reverence of something's passing. "Mithrandir."  
  
"What?" gasped Aragorn, staring at the Elf hard.  
  
"I thought..." Legolas trailed off. "No. I guessed wrongly. I thought he was-"  
  
"As did I," the Man finished. "Such is the White Hand's malice: taking the hopes of three hearts and twisting them to ensnare us here."  
  
"It's still unacceptable on my part," Legolas said. He stood up swiftly, but felt a little dizzy. Resting his forehead on the heel of his palm, he said, "I was so certain. I do not know what happened. It is rare that my premonitions are wrong."  
  
"I know, my friend. That is what makes Saruman so dangerous."  
  
Despite Aragorn's reassurance, Legolas guilt was heavy in his heart. The rain ceased after a while and they rose, shaking off weariness and unease though the latter clung to them for a long time thereafter.  
  
* * *  
  
They reached the top of the hill in little time, though Legolas was surprised to find himself short of breath. He guessed it to be a side effect of his encounter with Saruman, nothing more. Nothing more. Night would not hold comfort for a long time to come.  
  
For the first time in many days, they felt the warmth of the sun on their shoulders. The cloaks of Lorien shimmered as if wet in the light. The air was crisp and fresher here, lacking the heady decay that was present below the branches of Fangorn. Yet Legolas felt that they were naked up there: as if the Eye of Sauron might brush that region, pausing to consider what it meant to see three races traveling together, heading toward the heart of a long-enchanted wood.  
  
He shaded his eyes and looked around. At first he saw nothing that would give him unease, but the stirring in his heart told him that something was approaching. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw movement in the trees below. He blinked and looked back. There it was again! Something gray had flitted by, now blocked by boughs and leaves. In a moment, he saw it clearly, and his heart shrank with fear: an old man, all in gray rags, was working his way through the woods just beneath them.  
  
"And he has us caught in his net once again," Legolas breathed.  
  
Aragorn and Gimli rushed to his side and he indicated the old man's location with a curt nod. For a good four minutes they watched his progress in silence. Then Aragorn said, "We are three and he is one, and aged. But if he is whom we guess, then our only hope is the element of surprise. Yet we cannot attack an old man at unawares."  
  
Legolas showed his disagreement by knocking an arrow, and fiercely narrowing his eyes to pinpoint their assailant. "I will not let him disarm me again."  
  
"Nor will I." There was a ringing sound as Gimli took out his axe.  
  
They stood poised, a triple tidal wave frozen at the peak of its crest, yet all their built up energy fizzled away into a dull hum when the old man looked up. His faint, glittering eyes pinned on each of them for a moment, analyzing their physical traits in mere seconds, then his voice called out to them.  
  
His voice was strange: both like and unlike the lilt that had invaded Legolas' head the night before. There was power, but it seemed to be of a different source: a clear pool rather than a roaring waterfall, replacing violence with uncanny depth. But the power remained. It was demanding and keen. It cut into him.  
  
"Will you come down? Or should I come up?"  
  
Left mute in astonishment once more, the Three Hunters gaped in response.  
  
"Very well. I shall come to you."  
  
In five clean bounds, the old man had scaled the hill, his speed leaving them breathless and afraid. They stepped back a little as the old man straightened up, but his face was still shaded under his rags. He looked at them again from under his tattered hood and said, "A wonder do I see here: for together travel Dwarf, Man and Elf. I've not seen such since the Elder Days, and even then! There is a tale to be heard surely." He paused, expecting them to respond. Met with silence, he seemed to take minor offence. "Come now, the tale! The tale! I do not ask much of you."  
  
Legolas felt his grip on his bow lessen, and shuddered as the arrow fell from his hand. Gimli heard the sound, soft as it was, as the dart smote the grass near the Elf's feet. The Dwarf turned and spoke as if the old man were not there.  
  
"Now, Legolas! Shoot him! Before he bewitches us."  
  
"Did I not say I wished to hear your tale?" the old man asked rhetorically, and his voice was strangely booming. "Kindly put aside that bow, Master Elf."  
  
To everyone's amazement, including his own, he did. He lowered his left arm and felt the bow slip from his fingers, joining the arrow at his feet. Gimli gawked in astonishment. "What's the matter with you?"  
  
*The matter with me...* Legolas mused, his arms hanging limply at his sides. The vision in Galadriel's mirror wavered before his eyes, dancing, tempting. That old man had been Gandalf-hadn't he? *But this one...he must be Saruman.* Yet he did not feel powerless now. He felt awe and sorrow. It was like coming home after many years, and seeing a new face plastered over the old rustic walls you remembered. It was familiar but unsettling.  
  
"That's better," the stranger commended. Legolas blinked in response. From under his hood, the old man smiled through a snowy beard, flawlessly white and smooth as fresh snow gleaming on a mountain peak in the distance: a noble smile. Legolas relaxed a little. "Come, let us sit and talk." He moved toward a pile of stones, and as he settled himself down upon them, his gray cloak moved a little to reveal gleaming white robes beneath.  
  
That was the signal. Legolas snatched up his bow and the arrow swiftly as he could move. He heard the soft ringing sounds of his companions revealing their blades. Then, as one, they all moved forward. Gimli cleared his throat a little and said proudly, "We have guessed your game, Saruman. Don't try anything or I'll put a dent in your hat you won't soon forget!"  
  
But the old man seemed to have found a sudden swiftness that was a match for the speed of a young Elf. He leapt upon the stones and spread his arms wide. His walking stick seemed to have changed form, becoming a shining and polished: a staff of an Istari, a relic of awesome power. Fueled with fear and adrenalin, Legolas felt his arm go back on it's own. But before the string twanged, the bow tilted upward and the arrow flew above them like a shooting star, disappearing into the sunlight.  
  
The old man's hood fell away, and he smiled at them all again. His coal-black eyes stared into Legolas' gray ones and they each grinned.  
  
"Mithrandir."  
  
* * *  
  
The sun was high above them, hot and kind, by the time Gandalf finished his tale. In turn, Aragorn revealed their own trials and tribulations. The wizard's already-lined face seemed to become more deeply creased with sorrow and steady fear when he learned of what had become of Sam and Frodo. There seemed to be a great battle raging in his mind as he fought down the stifling sadness to move on, to lead the three weary warriors seated before him. They were thinner than when he had last seen them, even the Elf. The trek and searching had put strains on their eyes and soreness in their limbs, yet all of it was nothing compared to the constant anxiety that brewed in their hearts and reveries.  
  
A lightness of being came forth when Gandalf spoke of Galadriel. The three hunters leaned forward, eager to hear word of Lorien and its lady. And it was revealed to them that she had visions to dispense to them all. Aragorn's message was one of aid: an invitation to rally the Dunedain. The Man smiled, his eyes gleaming, at the thought of his people, or Galadriel, or both.  
  
Thus Gandalf turned to Legolas and said, "You, son of Thranduil, also have a greeting from Galadriel. Heed it, but do not let it rule your mind or heart.  
  
Legolas Greenleaf, long under tree  
  
In joy thou hast lived: Beware of the Sea!  
  
For if thou hearest the cry of the gull on the shore  
  
Thy heart shall rest in the forest no more."  
  
A chill ran through Legolas' body. He met Gandalf's eyes unsteadily; pleading silently that there was more to those cryptic words to be revealed. Yet the wizard blinked in response, silent as the clouds.  
  
"That...that is *all*?" Legolas asked in a voice that came out quieter than he had intended.  
  
"That is all," Gandalf said.  
  
Gimli spoke up, annoyed and fearful that Galadriel seemed to have forgotten him, but Legolas stared at his own feet in silence. He felt Aragorn's eyes upon his down turned face, but did not turn to meet the Man's face. He would not look at pity. Not now.  
  
Death hung over the clearing like a heavy veil.  
  
* * *  
  
Arod was back, and Legolas' heart lifted. The horse was sacred to him. He had been touched by blessed hands: he was loved. He could sense this as he rode him, even with Gimli nervously clutching his waist when they galloped over the fields. Things were beginning to become clearer as they neared Edoras. Besides, Gandalf was back. He was real and there riding beside Legolas. But was he truly Gandalf? Yes and no.  
  
When Aragorn and Gimli slept soundly one night, Legolas approached the wizard and they shared the watch.  
  
"I've had so many dreams as of late," Legolas said. "Ever since we passed through Lorien."  
  
"Ah, yes," Gandalf sighed. "The Lady Galadriel told me that she had bade you to look into her Mirror."  
  
Legolas paused to seek the right words before speaking. "Did she tell you what I saw?"  
  
"No. That was for you to know, and for you to tell only if it be the wish of your free will. It belongs to no one else."  
  
Legolas fell silent. He looked to Gimli and Aragorn asleep on the springy grass. They were so young. "Then by my own leave I shall tell you, Mithrandir." He found it hard to look the wizard in the eye as he spoke. "My dreams are haunted by a maiden whom I do not know. I never have known her. Her face is strange and and yet somehow familiar to me. Lady Galadriel said that I would find her upon my quest and then I would know her. Am I making any sense?"  
  
Gandalf smiled, but his heart was troubled. "I understand you. Go on."  
  
"She was in a field, identical to these here that spread over Rohan. She had a horse, tall and silver-white. And she was fair, Mithrandir, fairer than most. She was cold and silent."  
  
Gandalf sighed. Legolas stopped. "Go on, go on."  
  
"But she is was a mortal maiden."  
  
Gandalf paused, remembering in a fleeting moment, a vision from the time before his transformation: Rohan, Théoden angry, and behind his throne a lady, Elven-fair. He saw golden hair. He saw youth in the limbs and milky skin. What had her name been?  
  
Legolas interrupted the thought with another: "I miss the days when all nine of us were gathered together. When we had time to smile even though deep down we were all afraid. I have not seen a genuine smile in such a long time. Our fears are laid bare as our day of reckoning approaches. I would not see my companions suffer so."  
  
"Your heart is greatly troubled," Gandalf sighed. "Do not let it be." He placed a hand on Legolas' back in a gesture of comfort and smiled gently. "Your father would be proud of you."  
  
In that moment, Legolas realized that he had no thought of home for many days. He had not thought of his own father. Guilt descended again. He rose silently and laid beside Aragorn's breathing body, letting himself slip away into a dream. It was not a restful one.  
  
-Fin-  
  
Please review, if you would.  
  
Continued in Chapter 12, the chapter you have all been waiting for: Chapter XII - Eowyn of the Rohirrim (get excited) 


	12. Chapter XII Eowyn of the Rohirrim

AUTHOR NOTES: Here you are. It's the moment you've all been waiting for so I finished it ASAP. I hope you like this as I worked very hard on getting the tone and feeling right. It's hard and basically impossible to capture true love, especially when one player is an immortal. All that said, things are really starting *now*. Get excited.  
  
Book Two: The New World  
  
* * *  
  
Chapter XII - Eowyn of the Rohirrim  
  
It was the trees that told him something was gleaming within.  
  
There were not many trees in Rohan: mostly there was grass, tall and slender, silvery-green like a rippling sea. But here, by the gateway of Edoras (* What a strange tongue! * he thought) two pear trees grew. They were not well kempt or properly pruned, but there was beauty in their awkwardness. The smell of decaying fruit wafted from the fallen pears near the bases of the trees. It was heady and intoxicating as any Elven perfume. But Edoras was far from Elven: it was something utterly new and different.  
  
The Rohirrim were tall and golden-haired, like many of the people of Lorien and the few Vanyar he had seen in Rivendell, but their faces held an original quality altogether. Their eyes (blue or gray for the most part) held ample courage and strength, in the few women he saw as well as in the sturdy men. There was freshness there as well-after all, these were humans. They were less than children to him. They were barely breathing out of the womb before that wonder of Death took them all away.  
  
Legolas tried hard not to stare at all the newness that he saw. It was overwhelming. He tried to keep his head down, letting both Aragorn and Gimli go before him as they followed Gandalf into what seemed to be the heart of the little, rural city. He felt eyes watching, and heard whispers that sounded fearful. The coldish breeze was dry here, and he noticed that the smell of salt, as distant as it had been, troubled him no more.  
  
A voice interrupted his observant seclusion: a door warden was speaking in a less than polite tone to Gandalf of all people. "Leave your weapons behind."  
  
Legolas unstrapped his Lorien bow, though not happily. He gave the warden a precise glare as he handed him his weapon and its accompanying quiver. Then he said in the most ominous tone he could muster, "They are gifts from the Lady of the Golden Wood. I will not have anyone else touch them."  
  
"None shall," the warden promised, though his voice shook slightly upon touching the bow's smooth, enameled wood. Legolas felt a little sorry for this man, who would then have to demand of Aragorn his most sacred family heirloom, and of Gandalf his talisman of earth-shattering power. Let alone Gimli, scowling to himself.  
  
* * *  
  
In time, they were reluctantly let in.  
  
The gold-carved doors were pulled open by two blonde guards with braided beards, and they swung with the groaning sound of old lungs that have not taken in new breath for a long, long time. There was the soothing smell of food and wood smoke, but Legolas was troubled by a faint scent that was, he knew, the essence of human old age.  
  
*This heartbreaking figure dwarfed by his own throne must be Théoden.*  
  
Still, three seconds time was all that passed in that hall before a shocking force took hold of the young Elf and rooted him to where he stood.  
  
There was a moment of utter stillness, save for a light breeze that glided through the Hall though the day had been mild and windless. All noises ceased. All motion stopped in the room, save in one place: upon the dais of Rohirric royalty, gleaming beside King Théoden's throne. For there, carved in ice and liquid fire, a vision of Tilion, the moon, and Arien, the sun, combined in utter perfection, was the woman of his reveries, the lady who haunted his psyche, who had called to him from afar and drawn him here to come to her, naked and powerless before the blue-gray seas he saw in her eyes.  
  
So it was for the first time outside of his dreams, Legolas Greenleaf looked upon the White Lady Eowyn of Rohan.  
  
She was so young! He could not guess her age exactly, but he knew that she had to be no more than twenty autumns old. Her hair was the gold of a finely crafted pendant's chain, it's waterfall sheen accented with the slightest wave: the cool bend of flowing rivers. Her skin was golden pale and utterly flawless, and she wore a simple dress of white stitched with green thread as vibrant as the grassy fields beyond. Her mouth was full and not quite closed as her masterful eyes blinked in what looked like disbelief.  
  
He saw how dark her lashes were as she returned his gaze with fierce intensity.  
  
Then Legolas exhaled.  
  
He realized that he had completely fallen into his own thoughts, forgetting all around him. A fierce exchange was in progress between Gandalf and some wiry little man perched near the old king's throne. Legolas did not like that small creature so near his Ithilwen. He wanted to say her name aloud to see what she would do.  
  
Ah, but now was not the time. How precious time was to them all: to Legolas, to the intensely beautiful girl, to Aragorn stiffened with apprehension by his side, to Gimli glowering at the Rohan guards lining the hall, to Gandalf, his short temper being tried like the steady plucking of a tightly-wound bowstring.  
  
"And what does the wanderer bring: three lowly vagabonds clad in gray!"  
  
Legolas realized that he was suddenly frightfully embarrassed. He hoped that the shining young woman did not see the fire he felt raising in his face. Did he look a mess? He had not thought so, before that hour...  
  
The woman's eyes were on him again.  
  
He lifted his eyes to look at her, but the hideous little kneeling man stole his gaze and spat: "And here? An Elf! A creature of eerie power, *here*, let in to the very hall of our good king!" Grìma sneered a sickly sneer. "They have had dealings with the sorceress of the Golden Wood, no doubt. He is probably one of her spies. Wicked is the Stormcrow who brings the Eldar hither!"  
  
Legolas stared in disbelief at the sniveling advisor. He was utterly speechless. What had he done to deserve *that*?  
  
There was another change in the air. There was the soft, gentle sound of silk brushing against silk. The woman behind the throne moved a little, staring the dumbstruck Elf right in the eye, and she spoke her first words to him:  
  
"Lord of the Elder Folk, do not let your heart be troubled. Master Grìma does not speak for us all."  
  
His heart exploded with awe.  
  
The little man hissed up at the maiden. "Youth blinds you, Lady Eowyn."  
  
*Eowyn*, Legolas realized. He knew her name! What a lilting name!  
  
Grìma was not finished. "This is a far more serious matter than any of you realize!"  
  
Yet Legolas found his voice, and said, "A wonder it is to find such hostile words among our own allies. Are not all Free Peoples enemies of the Dark Lord?"  
  
The woman, Eowyn, stared at him hard. Momentarily, he regretted his words, thinking her look to be one of reproach. Then he realized it was not. She was searching his face for a sign that he was like her. She had found it.  
  
In that small period of time, they had been united in their apparent hatred for Grìma Wormtongue.  
  
* * *  
  
Two guards in the room were in love with Eowyn. There was not a young man in Rohan who had not dreamed of her icy touch, of running their fingers through the liquid of her hair. But these two men, young but slightly older than she, were truly infatuated.  
  
They were also horribly threatened by the Man who had strode into the room behind Gandalf.  
  
One whispered to the other, "Look how the Lady regards this Aragorn!"  
  
The other agreed. "Indeed. She's already smitten."  
  
"He seems far too old for her."  
  
"Yet part of him does not look it. There's something uncanny about him: about all of them."  
  
"Look at her eyes!" the first one hissed. "She is right in love with that Man. She is staring at his face!"  
  
This was but one source of the rumor of Eowyn's yearning for Aragorn. Yet if those two guards had stood at a different angle, they might have seen the person Eowyn truly regarded. But they were simple soldiers of Rohan. The idea of the Quendi and their beauty was so intense, that neither had thus far dared to look at the Elf's legendary face.  
  
* * *  
  
She did not smile. She lifted her chin and looked at him again, full force, unashamed to catch his eye. Her pride stirred something deep within him: a part he had forgotten he possessed. The walls could have fallen, the ceiling could have born down upon him, and he would have been happy to die.  
  
The poetry of Gelmir of Gondolin ran through his head, but this time, it was set to a beautiful, alien tune.  
  
* * *  
  
Gandalf tensed, though his ears were focused on the soft, gruff words of Théoden. He sensed a great focusing in the room: the careful, cautious honing of two opposing forces coming together. There was a vibrant power here.  
  
He felt the rhythm of two races as they danced in secret silence.  
  
-Fin-  
  
Review, please.  
  
Continued in Chapter XIII - The Deceits of Grìma Wormtongue (Eowyn and Legolas become officially acquainted, the advisor doesn't like it one bit) 


	13. Chapter XIII The Deceits of Grima Wormt...

AUTHOR NOTES: I'm sorry that my chapters have been so short lately. I'm trying to fit a lot in here. I also have to reread a lot of The Two Towers to make this accurate. Just bear with me. This chapter deals with some pretty weighty issues so let it flow over you.  
  
This is also the first time I have made a major plot change: here, I have some time between the Three Hunters' arrival in Rohan and the expulsion of Grima Wormtongue. I added a little over 24 hours time between. It allows for some nice tension and theatrics, which I adore. Hopefully, you will forgive my indulgence. I was inspired by the wonderful fanfic "Lie Down in Darkness, Rise Up from Ash" by Dwimmordene. It has since disappeared from FanFiction.Net, but please search for it and give it a read. It's exhilarating.  
  
About appearances: apparently Eowyn has gray eyes. I picture them as being gray-blue: the color of the sea during a storm. Is Legolas blonde? Not in my mind. I always saw him with brown hair-it made him seem more like a Wood- Elf: sylvan coloring. As for the "Thranduil was blonde argument," well my mom's blonde and I have dark, dark brown hair: almost black. Tolkien himself said (of the Elves) "Their locks were dark, save in the golden house of Finarfin"-a house that neither Legolas nor Thranduil were a part of.  
  
But feel free to imagine the characters however you'd like. It is your imagination. It is the universe over which you have supreme control.  
  
Chapter XIII - The Deceits of Grìma Wormtongue  
  
Nothing was certain, only this: he would find no rest in Rohan-for she was everywhere. He could smell her on the air, he could feel the silk of her hair on his legs when he walked through the tall grass, he felt the smoothness of her skin as he ran his fingers over the cold, polished gold that was inlaid on the doors of nearly every royal building. Her breath was the wind: the smell of the fresh grass and water and gleaming daylight on curving fields.  
  
At night he wondered how Aragorn and Gimli slept so peacefully. He found nothing more confusing than sleep at that moment. The unexplained limbo: one of the great mysteries cutting a clear boundary between that which was human and elvish. He would let his hands wander, allowing them to run up and down the length of his own body. He was trying to imagine what it would be like to feel her infantile, mortal hands on him. It was agony. He tried to picture the sensation of her touch but all he was left with was frustration and a gnawing hunger that made him sharp-tongued the next morning-much to Gimli's chagrin.  
  
"What's the matter with you now, Elf?" the dwarf frunted. "So dreary and glib! Do you miss sleeping on the ground in the middle of nowhere?"  
  
Legolas wouldn't reply. The desire was sharp and deep. He went off alone, as alone as he could be, seeking her out even as he sought solitude. But she was nowhere to be found. Longing was turning into acute pain.  
  
* * *  
  
Distantly, he thought of Arod and then Legolas found he greatly missed his forgotten friend. Arod certainly was not Ithildir, the last horse he had owned way back at the time of the Battle of Five Armies-since then, he had not bothered finding a steed with which to bond: he picked different horses from his father's stables whenever he needed to. But Arod was more of a horse than Ithildir or any before him: he was stronger and far more handsome. His coat was cloudy gray and he was gentle under the Elf, both trusting and curious.  
  
Arod had been taken back upon their arrival into the little gold- painted city, and now Legolas' own curiosity led him exploring all through the capital. It was awkward. People would stop what they were doing and simply stare at him. He had never felt such mass scrutiny in his life. Children would cease playing and gape as he walked by.  
  
"Look at his ears!"  
  
"Look at that cloak! What color is that? Is it magical?"  
  
"Look at his hands! Such skinny hands!"  
  
"Look at his hair!"  
  
"They say the Elf-Witch sent him here!"  
  
"Look at his skin!"  
  
"Will he work magic spells? Can he work magic spells?"  
  
"Look at his *eyes*!"  
  
"Look, look, look!"  
  
They were just children, and human, and impossibly young-but he wished more than anything that they would give it a rest, or at least try to whisper more quietly. Humans had no tact.  
  
But the children, damn them, had made him think of two who were sundered from him: he thought of Frodo and Sam, far away, inching toward the jaws of death, and he was here, being gossiped about by ignorant horse- people who knew nothing of his kind, who considered his very race to be a thing of myth and old wives' tales. And he was of no use at all. He was blinded by love, distracted from his goal. But there was nothing to do yet. He was useless-and most stinging of all, he was unneeded.  
  
Even Merry and Pippin were fine on their own. Gandalf had proven that. What could *he* do? Aragorn was the leader, the one with a goal. Aragorn had a woman whose devotion was painfully obvious. It was so intense that it brought tears to the witnesses of their love. Despite what Elrond and the others may have thought, Legolas knew. He could understand now. He recalled, with a bitter smile, the thought that had run through his mind during the days before their departure from misty Imladris:  
  
Legolas stood aloof from the others and watched their embrace with interest. Once, long before Aragorn had been born, Elrond and Thranduil had hoped a love would form between Legolas and Arwen, but they took to each other like brother and sister and no romance followed. Now he wondered how their story would end. He wondered if it could end happily, even in better times. *How can an Elf love a mortal?* he thought to himself. *It is naught but a set-up for a suffering that does not end. Aragorn is not Beren. Ah, but Arwen-she must be Luthien Tinúviel.*  
  
"How indeed," he whispered to any who would listen-in this instance, the sun, the grass and the wind. But so much had changed in-to an Elf-such little time. Was this love then? This consuming thing? No: for this was cruel. Where was the release? The happiness? Where was the serene sensation that had inspired so many songs and ballads? Could he remember a world before Eowyn?  
  
He realized, horribly, that he should be at home with-  
  
His father. He had forgotten all about his father. He had forgotten home.  
  
No. She had risen. She had blotted out the past. She was all. He put his head in his hands and closed his eyes. She was all around. She was the past, the present, and the future. She was their victory. She was their defeat. She was the glowing balance between the Free Peoples and Mordor-her power was terrible to behold. She was darkness and light, Eä, and nothingness, and she was he, and they were one, and they were naught at all.  
  
He realized he had stopped in front of a great stable. The smell of horses, spicy and calming, wafted out. *Arod,* he remembered. He stepped inside, found he was alone, and took a moment with each animal, stroking their snouts, calming them with choice words in his language. Arod was there indeed, playful and dancing in his corral. He spoke to his friends in their silent tongue and the Elf spoke back. The other horses responded. They whinnied at Legolas, coaxing his touch. They were not lonesome, no; they spoke of their masters with the purest of love. They thought their riders proud, brave and beautiful.  
  
*Eowyn, too?*  
  
*Oh, Eowyn,* they whispered. *Here is one who knows Eowyn. Child of the Eldar, know that she is the bravest and the most beautiful of them all.*  
  
* * *  
  
"What are you doing here?"  
  
Her voice was strong, though not quite reprimanding. She was, if anything, as curious as he. But the jolt of her voice startled him, and he realized that his distraction had meant he had not heard her coming. That was unheard of. His father would have shuddered to see such distraction in his heir-apparent.  
  
But Legolas turned and faced her placidly, invoking the elvish gift of masking emotions, ignoring the thunder in his chest. "I wanted to see Arod again."  
  
She was leaning against a carved beam of wood, one arm lifted to shoulder height, supporting her slender weight. She wore a dress of a bluish-gray cloth that matched her eyes. Her long hair was plaited into two messy braids that hung heavy down her back. The plaits gleamed like they were woven of the gold he had glimpsed in the caverns of Erebor long ago.  
  
Her eyes showed interest in the Elf-she wanted to know more. "Arod: did you ride him here?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
She smiled at Arod who whinnied happily. "He's one of our best. It is good to see him happy though his master is dead." Legolas had forgotten that the horses gifted to them were now riderless because of orc-work. "How did you get in?" she continued, casual but observant.  
  
Legolas tried to preserve the relaxed atmosphere, ordering his pulse to lessen. "I came through that gate, there. It was not locked." He paused. "Why? Am I not supposed to be here?"  
  
"These are the Royal Stables, and we have never allowed outsiders to come hither."  
  
Horrified, he looked down at the hay-strewn ground, hoping she did not notice the color draining from his face. "I am sorry, Lady Eowyn. I did not mean you or your people any disrespect."  
  
There was a cool, calm moment of silence. He heard the shift of her dress as she brought her arm down. "I said not so. It is nothing, sir. You did not know."  
  
He took a risk and looked up into her face. "Please: call me Legolas."  
  
She tried the name out on her tongue: "Legolas...what a strange tongue your people have. Lyrical; it seems to flow like water." Eowyn turned to the black horse at her right, and she petted its downy snout with unreserved affection. "Legolas. What do you think of that name, Léod?"  
  
Hearing his name from her mouth was torture. Her full lips traced each syllable like a kiss. Legolas turned his attention back to Arod who seemed to be watching the exchange like a bemused observer. Then there was tension in Arod's eyes as well. The horse was looking at something over the Elf's shoulder. There was a creaking sound. He and Eowyn turned at the same moment. A bony hand was pushing open the gate, and some morning light crept in, ruining the shady peace of the moment.  
  
Then he heard Eowyn catch her breath as the intruder came in.  
  
"What is *he* doing here?" came the screeching voice.  
  
It was that little snake of a Man, Grìma. Would they never be rid of him? Legolas took his hand away from Arod's face and felt himself step back. But Eowyn stood stiff and still as a column of blue ice, staring like a cornered panther.  
  
Grìma slithered closer. "You know the law! No outsider shall cross the threshold to the King's Stables! Your uncle will be wrath to hear of your folly, Eowyn."  
  
"The law is old," she replied steadily. "I let him come," she lied smoothly. "He was kind to our horses and wished to see one he had befriended earlier. Besides, I am here to watch." She cast a warm eye on Legolas. "If the stories speak true, then we have little to fear of the Fair Folk and our steeds, save only that all the horses should become too fond of him."  
  
Grìma came close to Eowyn, so close that Legolas felt the blood in his veins simmer with angry outrage. *Get away from her.*  
  
"I do not like this one," Grìma said in a hissing whisper, not quiet enough to escape Legolas' Elven ears. "He is a member of a cold and powerful race. They can bewitch with a glance. I will not him with you, nor among our finest steeds."  
  
Legolas forgot all candors, summoning as much Mirkwood princeliness as he could, and sternly said, "If your quarrel is with me, Grìma Wormtongue, then it is me whom you shall address." He set his jaw and made a point of looking down. "I meant no harm in coming hither, and despite what you may think of my people, I mean no disrespect to you, your customs, nor any of your kind, least of all Lady Eowyn."  
  
"You know not what you say, Master Elf," Grìma hissed. "You know not the ways of Men: why would an Elf trouble himself to know of our customs?"  
  
"I have never found it customary among Men to act without tact or wisdom, son of Gamlod. You are the first."  
  
Grìma's face twisted with frightful rage, which was contrasted with the icy, emotionless countenance of Legolas. The following silence was heavy. Then, with a shrieking sniff, the short man whipped around and stalked out of the shady stable, and Legolas and Eowyn were alone.  
  
Yet she was hurt. A blow had been delivered unfairly and it showed with wistful subtlety.  
  
"My Lady?" he whispered, afraid that his voice would somehow draw back the Worm.  
  
She shook off the moment and said quietly, "I'm sorry he is cruel to you. He is cruel to everyone." She looked at him sadly. "He always has been." Then, collecting herself, she turned and left through a different gate, swiftly walking in the opposite direction that Grìma had gone. It was as though she were an injured deer leaving a trail of blood behind. Legolas stood amazed by the pain he saw.  
  
Arod extended his silken, gray head and nudged Legolas' arm. A message was lightly transferred through their touch: a memory was the gift, and he had been asked to be the receiver. A revelation was in store. Then the Elf closed his eyes and sank into a dream that came and enveloped him.  
  
* * *  
  
It was one of her darkest memories.  
  
He felt the cramped smallness of childhood upon his form. He was short again, though Eowyn was a tall, proud child. The height change was strange and seemed alien, as though he had become a voiceless, base creature: so far in the past, long, long ago, had his childhood been.  
  
The fear came, too. Into the room swept a dark, hunched figure, swathed in blood red robes. He crossed the floor without sound, gliding like a snake and suddenly he stood high and tall before him. The face seemed strange, for once being higher than his own: adolescence made Grìma taller than Eowyn. But what youth should have shown in that man's serpentine visage was not there-it seemed he had always had the sour expression of a Man tainted with orc-like wrath.  
  
"Be silent, girl," the gnarled advisor whispered wetly. Then he bent slowly forward. Legolas as Eowyn felt himself shrink away with fear. But a bony hand reached out and caught his arm, pulling him closer. "Silent as you promised!"  
  
His back hit the wall behind him: a wooden beam digging into his spine. How small he was! And how strong and vice-like was the grip of Grìma! He tried to fight, as Eowyn, but something snapped. He felt all strength leave: he was alone, meaningless, weak and young. There was nothing he could do-and he realized it with an urge to sob. But Eowyn was strong in him, and she would remain silent.  
  
She was silent and still, even as the bent Man opened his hot, wet mouth and covered her own. Then there was overpowering darkness, and despite the crushing pressure and heat, they were lost in despair, and they were frightfully alone.  
  
* * *  
  
Then the vision mercifully ceased. He gasped for air and scared the horses with his sudden movement.  
  
The horrified, empathetic sorrow he felt for Eowyn was then replaced with a fury so strong and menacing that it amazed him. He suddenly wanted to kill Grìma with his bare hands. He wanted to rip the life out of his pitiless form and grind him into the stony ground. He was fiercely livid. He was vengeance and retribution in a gray-green clad form, and he swore by all the oaths of his people, in silence, that Grìma Wormtongue would suffer greatly.  
  
Arod neighed softly, longing for attention. But Legolas could give him none. He walked out of the stable into the sunlight with his fists clenched, making the Rohiric children scatter before him. He could taste the ferocious rage in his mouth, metallic like blood.  
  
But then all the built up fierceness fizzled away into nothing. What could he do? He was nothing to her. He was nothing but an exotic curiosity come to play with her horses. He was no one. When would he realize that in full?  
  
*Eowyn, Eowyn, Eowyn, I would give my soul to heal your heart.*  
  
* * *  
  
A little help was delivered, thankfully. Legolas stumbled upon a scene that was expected but irritating. Was he bound to her fate? He loved it. He wanted to always be there for her, to come at her silent call. He would be her slave if she but gave the word.  
  
And here: hushed voices in an exchange that was tense and angered. He had gone back inside the main hall, meaning to seek out Gimli or Aragorn, or even Gandalf: he was in desperate need of voicing something to someone. He needed council, as he never had before. Galadriel would know what to do but she was far, and the cruel distance silenced her voice. And then the isolating thought struck him: he, Legolas Greenleaf, was the only Elf in the entire southern region of Middle-earth!  
  
So as he scaled a wooden hallway, making for the small, narrow rooms given to them for boarding, he caught the voices in the air and one promised "Eowyn!" and the other spoke of the hated one. Without a second thought, he made for the sound.  
  
He saw them facing each other. Eowyn was taller than Grìma, but the man was as dangerous as a poison snake and just as quick and crafty. Venom wafted from him. There was the essence that Legolas had felt when faced by Saruman in the wood: the link between the fallen wizard and this pathetic advisor was uncannily strong. But Eowyn was impenetrable and proud.  
  
She held her ground well. Grìma went on and on about how much he disliked her current attitude of lenience regarding the visitors. He lectured on the dangerous power of Gandalf Stormcrow his three uniformly gray clad followers. And then he paused, perhaps for breath, and erupted in a stream of insults all aimed at Legolas, the uncanny, untrustworthy Elf. Such words about Elves Legolas had never heard even from Dwarves! Grimly smiling, he thought of what Gimli would do to Grìma now, as Galadriel's surname came up and was paired with less than lovely words. With a curt exhalation, the wiry little man ceased.  
  
Then Eowyn spoke her part. She was not, she reminded him, a little girl any longer who would take orders from him. She would let her own heart dictate her actions with the visitors who were, after all, allies in their cause against Mordor-what was wrong with that? Besides, her uncle Théoden was no longer mistrustful of Gandalf, nor was she. He had tamed Shadowfax: that was a great and noble feat. And he came with aid.  
  
Grìma opened his mouth to go on, but Legolas took that moment to step forward from his concealed place of being out of sight around a draped corner. He came with a light, measured step, and delivered a surprised look at seeing the two at odds.  
  
But he ignored Grìma and turned to Eowyn with respect and said, "Lady Eowyn, I am new to this place and am not sure of my way. If you have the time, would you give me a brief tour of the central buildings?"  
  
She grinned a smile that clearly said, "Thank you!" and nodded. Still facing Legolas, she shifted her eyes to look at Grìma. "We will continue this conversation another time. Obligation calls upon me."  
  
Then they turned as one and left Grìma dumbstruck and seething to himself. By the end of the day, he had fled Rohan and the fears of Gandalf were confirmed. Yet Legolas rued the loss of Grìma Wormtongue: he secretly hoped that they would meet again, alone, in a place where the Man's pathetic screams would not be heard as Legolas used all his art to make him regret he'd ever crossed paths with an Elf. Vengeance was still very much due. When night came, he looked to Varda's stars and shamelessly asked for one such opportunity. After all, he had asked for very little.  
  
But Eowyn wandered away from him for he had not the voice to call to her in a way she would understand. The one great wish of his soul was still heartbreakingly unfulfilled. Even Varda herself, and all the Valar assembled behind her, would never be able to grant his simple request.  
  
-Fin-  
  
As always, you had better review or I'll send blonde men on horses to burn your house down.  
  
Continued in Chapter 14 - The Armory  
  
(The Rohirrim ready themselves for the battle of Helm's Deep: and the friendship between Legolas and Eowyn is blossoming into something quite different) 


	14. Chapter XIV The Armory

AUTHOR NOTES: This is my super long author note. How thrilling!  
  
I love my readers. YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE. I love you. As much as Legolas loves Eowyn, in fact (insert lyrical hodgepodge here). I even love the mean reviews. Am I a sadomasochist or what?  
  
You are the lovely reasons for my continued writing, but I must say, it is terribly hard to sate your appetites. For my own sake, I have to ask for a little more lenience in the time department. I'm spitting out chapters as fast as I can. I don't want to give you total swill. I like to make them good enough at least for posting. And thank you for giving me 100 reviews! Crikey.  
  
Oh, and the last thing I'll say on the subject of Elf hair (a popular topic, non?) is this: read the appendix of LOTR! The last thing written therein is about the Elves, and in this ending chunk of text it says: "Their locks were dark, save in the golden house of Finarfin." House of Finarfin you say? That means Galadriel, Finrod and all their crew.part of this family tree the Mirkwood elves are not. They're Sindarin: Gray Elves, Moriquendi, whatever you'd like to call them. But honestly.WHO CARES? Live freely! Let imagination run wild! Maybe your Legolas has blue hair. Terrific.  
  
Please realize that I am not going to make that many changes to the original plot. Yes, this story is about the bond between Eowyn and Legolas- but Faramir is going to feature, and in full force. Love triangles are fun to write, but no fun to be in.  
  
Chapter XIV - The Armory  
  
The dreamy days had somehow melted into weeks. These were short and filled with fleeting moments that sent Legolas' heart to his throat with fear. She was rather intimidating. She was so brave, so fearless-he felt like a gust of wind in the shadow of a mighty storm.  
  
The prospect of battle had ignited something subtly keen in Eowyn's eyes. Her stance was statuesquely taut, but not rigid. Her movements were precise and quick, like the practiced techniques of a combat master gesturing to his lined-up pupils. But Eowyn was a silent adviser: she spoke to everyone in her stillness. She inspired each eye that fell upon her. In effect, she was the model of the perfect warrior without so much as lifting a finger.  
  
There was no doubt in Legolas' mind that Eowyn was a warrior. It was something deeper than the fact that she had obviously been raised in this cavalry-based culture. Her steps were like the ringing of polished steel, her glance that of a skilled hunter. Perhaps it was something instilled in her blood. He had seen a little of it in Eomer as well.  
  
How amusing to realize that Eomer and Eowyn were brother and sister! That certainly explained some of Legolas' uneasiness when they had first encounter the Rohirrim. And Eomer was certainly more amiable now, though weary and afraid whereas Eowyn was fiercely proud and shining. She was a beacon to everyone as the finality of war came upon them. Even Gandalf cast a searching eye on her face, as though he perceived something grave and mysterious that she had hidden away from them-something that was beautiful and unexpected, and would show itself quite soon.  
  
* * *  
  
"An Elf has come to Rohan," Eowyn whispered to the night, for she had heard in a story that the night belonged to the Elves, that their souls were doubled in that world, and that each star matched its Elven soul upon the land of Middle-earth; for every star their was an Elven spirit. She remembered the stories of their deeds that seemed both heroic and sad. Mostly there was sadness, but she liked sadness. It was profound. She loved all that was profound, even in the briefest, slightest way.  
  
And Eowyn was young, but not too young. She was old enough to conduct herself with tact and grace. She was the daughter of a proud line of kings and exceeded all the expectations laid before her. But now...she found herself stepping back to gaze in awe.  
  
Outsiders seldom came. There was no safe route to Rohan with the wandering tribes of orcs that picked at the population like a subtle plague. Eowyn was faced with restrictions: no riding without escort was the rule she rued the most. Why was she tied down while her brother was permitted to roam as he would? Everyone seemed to have some preconception of her-everyone except this being of another world and also, it seemed, another time.  
  
War.  
  
They told her she would stay and protect those left behind, but when they spoke she only heard 'left behind.' And then she felt wave upon wave of hot anger. Had they not seen her with the blade? Had she not trained side by side with her brother-her hateful brother, who she loved, but who always took what she had wanted, and wanted what he might never have. Eomer was older than she, but young still, and irrational more often than not. She was the levelheaded one. She was the one they sought for counsel. Why now would they abandon her?  
  
Oh, they still found uses for her. That was surprisingly simple for them. "Help our comrades to find armor for the oncoming plight, my Lady."  
  
Find armor like a common shield-maiden? Her blood boiled in her veins: but then she remembered, with an enchanted smile, that the Outsiders were mystifying-and she would be alone with each of them in turn.  
  
Gandalf the wizard: he required no armor, but sought to sharpen his sword. It was a wondrous weapon "of elvish make" and on its blade runes were etched that no one in Edoras could read. The handle was wrapped with woven ore and the blade was silvery-blue and lovely. And Gandalf was kind to her, not condescending. He gazed at her with a watchful eye while she spoke; making it evident that he was listening to her every word and yet was able to perceive a good deal that went unspoken.  
  
Gimli the Dwarf from the Northern Lands: he was an amusing fellow, but one whom you found yourself treating with the utmost seriousness and respect. There was a melodrama in his manner-even in the booming depth of his voice. But Eowyn could easily see a true warrior with a fearsome skill with his axe, which he, too, wished to have sharpened. Finding properly- fitting armor was another manner. Luckily, the squat fighter had worn a fine shirt of mail during the quest and needed little else. A helmet in his size was unavailable, but she found a hard cap of leather that suited the Dwarf fine.  
  
Aragorn, the Ranger: or something beyond, though she could not yet understand the sensation she felt that clearly said, "Here is one who is more than he seems even to those who know him well." He was handsome though she sensed many years in his eyes that had not yet affected his face. She felt herself tremble a little when he touched her hand, but she could not pass it off as something like a girlish infatuation. She did not tremble from a little dream of love: she quivered before majesty that was deep in the center of the earth and high above the furthest stars. And he was kind, and wise in his speech. He reminded her of Théoden in his younger years, Théoden when Théodred was still alive...*Oh Théodred, cousin, I shall never forget you!*  
  
And then?  
  
His name slipped off the tongue and fell into a gleaming pool. He stood tall and slender, a column swathed in that shadowy cloak that the Three Hunters wore. He smelled like water and leaves, and something fresh like lavender or a flower she had never smelled, a flower like the niphredil that grew so far away, or not at all, for now distance and myth were one and the same.  
  
His eyes were grey. That should not be unusual to her: nearly everyone in Rohan possessed light-colored eyes, grey the most common of them all. Even she had grey eyes. But this grey-it was a new color altogether. Like starry mist or morning rain: yet deep and fathomless like the sea or an enchanted wood of smooth, silver-barked trees. The color of his eyes seemed to morph when she looked at him: sometimes soft as storm cloud vapor, sometimes steely as a newly tempered blade. Beyond any other physicality, Eowyn knew that the eyes were the most telltale trait of an Elf.  
  
She liked that he knew when to be quiet. She had always had an appreciation for silence, and so it seemed did he. Often they had stood side-by-side, similar in their stance though he was the taller, and they had stared out across the fields sensing (and now, seeing) the oncoming darkness. Yet when Legolas the Elf stood with her, Eowyn found she had no desire to shudder with fear. She had known no fear as of late.  
  
He had scared the Wormtongue away. Or not. He certainly had helped.  
  
She was observant around him more than any of his other companions. She would study his movements carefully. Her few friends, male and female, would come to her side and say, "Tell us of the Elf! What manner of being is he? What does he say to you?"  
  
Alas that he spoke little since the first days of his arrival. After Grìma had fled, he seemed to recede. He appeared to cling to his companions rather than speak to her-but he went to her side in silence when she gazed afar. Or did he? Did he join her just out of curiosity regarding what she spied in the distance? Who could say? Who would dare to guess the mind of an Elf?  
  
Despite this aloofness, she was certain he was kind. It was almost unconscious, his kindness: it was an aura or an inborn essence. She saw it clearly when he was with the horses-it was even there when he cracked a joke at poor Gimli's expense. Yet the kindness was the strongest that morning when she approached him at a window overlooking the western plains. He had heard her coming long before she turned the corner, and was facing her when she looked up and honed her approach.  
  
His gaze was almost cautious. The long fingers resting lightly on the windowsill seemed as though they would spring up at any moment. The wind, coming through the window with the daylight, caused a few strands of his hair to dance across his face, but not one muscle twitched with any sort of irritation. He did not smile, he did not look stern: he simply was open to her for the first time in many, many days.  
  
"Come, sir," she said, finding her voice among the thicket of silence, "Our people have armor and helms that may fit you. Will you follow me to the armory?"  
  
He nodded a little and followed her, but he was mute. She heard the light steps of his feet like a little heartbeat following her wherever she went. His breath was silent. His clothes did not make a sound. Only there were the footfalls. And she let this beat lead them through the main buildings, down the twisting stair, where a young girl, Léofa, awaited their arrival-she was Eowyn's assistant now, with the fittings. Thus they went into the dusty armory.  
  
* * *  
  
Eowyn lifted a light helm off of a hook upon the wall. "Try this one."  
  
Legolas took it from her hands-briefly their fingers touched, and he tried not to stop breathing. He set the helm upon his head. The nose and chin guards slid over the contours of his face perfectly.  
  
"It fits well. You have a good eye." He removed it, and she took it from him and handed it to Léofa to be polished and cleaned. The girl bowed slightly and disappeared down the stairs.  
  
"Our weapons are old. It is long since the Rohirrim have gone to war."  
  
"Yet there are battles to be fought against the wandering orcs. Those are what Eomer combats, are they not?"  
  
"It is not *true* war. A few hackney skirmishes here and there are nothing compared with the trials of our forefathers, when our alliances with the other peoples were stronger."  
  
Legolas tilted his head to the side, gazing at her through discerning, narrowed eyes. "You are lucky to have never known true bloodshed then, to live in more peaceful times at least for a little while." The look she gave him showed that she disagreed, that she found herself the most unfortunate of people in all of Middle-earth.  
  
"All we have left are the stories we sing at feast time, and the soldiers always training in the courtyards like animals obsessively storing rations for a winter that will never come."  
  
"Ah, but it *has* come."  
  
"Yes. It has." She looked at him hard. "You, then, have known war? I wonder, were you at the great Elf-Friend battle?"  
  
He comically realized that she meant the Last Alliance. "No, I was born some years after that war. My Father was there, though, and my grandfather was killed during the first attack."  
  
"Your *Father* was there? That was-that was so many thousands of years ago!"  
  
He looked at her through narrowed eyes, confused. "It was only three thousand."  
  
Her face changed: it broke into a large, beaming smile. "Only three thousand, he says!" she laughed. "Then, pray tell, how old *are* you?"  
  
He had to think for a moment: Elves are not handy with their ages as Men. It is not of great importance to them. "I believe...yes. I am now 2,813 autumns old."  
  
Shaking her head in wonder, she sighed. "And I have but 23 such autumns to my name. Millennia divide us. You must forgive me. I had forgotten your people's life that does not end."  
  
She was the most charming woman he had ever met, and there was a moment that lasted a bit too long before he answered her. Embarrassed, he looked down and said, "It is a wonder we are even known in the South. We are not yet gone from this world, and already we are being forgotten, or written off as myth."  
  
His heartbeat rocketed when she placed a hand on his shoulder. "Believe me when I say that this mortal shall never forget you." Her tone, though casual, was genuine. She sought to lighten his heart more. "Tell me of the battle *you* fought."  
  
"We call it the Battle of Esgaroth, though your people name it the Battle of Five Armies, for in the fight were my father's armada, the Sylvan Elves of Mirkwood; the Dwarves of Erebor; the Men of Laketown; the Mountain Goblins; and the Wargs. My father wanted part of the spoils of victory after the death of the Dragon, Smaug, but the Dwarves were not lenient. He assembled our army to fight them, but then enemies were made into allies when we were ambushed by the orcs. It was a horrible fight. We charged first, having lost many friends to orc treachery, but I do not think we were truly prepared to make that first move. Within the first part of the battle, I lost my friend Arion to a goblin blade."  
  
"I am sorry," Eowyn said, remembering her manners. She had been riveted to the story thus far.  
  
"He died quickly." Legolas curtly sighed, looking away as he remembered that day. "I cannot recall much after that. I took an arrow in the right shoulder by sheer carelessness. It could have been fatal, if I had not but suddenly moved. It almost pierced my lung. I still bear the scar."  
  
"May I see?"  
  
"What?"  
  
She looked at him, confused. "May I see your scar?" she repeated. She did not know that Elves could actually *have* scars.  
  
He looked back, slyly smirking. "Do you not believe me?"  
  
She laughed. "I am only curious. Scars tell stories."  
  
"Of course you may." He reached up and unlaced the catches on the front of his tunic, moving his collar to the right. "There: do you see it? It is almost faded now."  
  
Eowyn edged closer and peered, closer and closer until her breath was warm and gentle on the Elf's skin. "No, I only see the top of your shoulder. Move it further."  
  
Unconsciously nervous, Legolas undid the laces more and slipped his tunic completely off his right shoulder, revealing the top of the plane of his chest. "There."  
  
"Yes, I see!" She reached out and traced the tiny, crescent moon-shaped mark with her finger. "It is light now, but I can tell it was deep." She did not notice his muscles contracting as she touched him, nor the way his inhalation suddenly seemed to cease. "It must have hurt very much."  
  
"More than anything," he breathlessly whispered in agreement.  
  
Startled, Eowyn looked up into his eyes, but her hand rested warm upon his skin. Legolas looked back, suddenly unafraid, unashamed of his obvious behavior. The world was frozen, waiting. Waiting and waiting. Her gray-blue eyes were cautious, but not nervous. They were measuring what they saw. They were softening. She was waiting, too.  
  
His eyes were gray, but green as well. She saw lines as lovely and smooth as brushstrokes on his irises, the color of moss light by sunlight. His lips were parted ever so slightly. He looked at her as though he were seeing through her, glimpsing something beyond. And when swiftly and gracefully he leaned and placed his mouth on hers, she did not try to stop him. It was the greatest gift she had ever received.  
  
The first time Legolas kissed Eowyn was a moment that neither of them ever forgot, and it was memory each recalled in times of great sorrow or strife. It lasted for only a moment, but it triggered something remarkable. For she had never been kissed like that, and nor had he. It was alien and strange, yet it felt right.  
  
As quickly as he had initiated it, Legolas pulled away with a light breath, his eyes wide with fear and wonder. He pulled up the fallen collar of his tunic, hiding his warm skin from her sight. And the power in her eyes was radiating, and the scent of her hair was intoxicating...and he was slipping away. He was horrified, realizing that he had been the catalyst in something monumental and irreversible.  
  
Never before had an Elf given himself fully to a mortal maiden.  
  
The silence of the room was disturbed only by the voices of Men outside who went on with their lives, unaware that history had changed in the dusty little storehouse near the back of the compound.  
  
* * *  
  
Time ceased and sped by, swift as breathing, swift as stars, and perhaps an instant had passed, perhaps an age, before Legolas and Eowyn simultaneously broke the bond they had forged by staring at each other in wonder. Their gazes simply fell at an unspoken agreement. The universe exhaled.  
  
Silence passed by like ripples extending, repeating, and expanding across an endless pond. Light danced off of shields and spearheads, speckling the floor and their skin with rings of sunshine. Eons passed: centuries flew by. They remained rigid and painfully aware of each other. Eowyn was the stronger of the two at that moment. Perhaps her frail mortality shielded her from the irrevocability of their crime. Perhaps she was simply, agonizingly ignorant. Whatever it was, she lifted her hand, extending the palm to him and said, "I have taken an ill step, my lord, and, perhaps, so have you." She waited, and then continued, "Forgive me."  
  
Legolas looked up, something indefinable shining in his eyes. He looked both ravenous and fearful-young, old, afraid, in love. Who was she to try to decipher the face of an Elf? Yet was that...could an Elf blush? Even slightly? Or was it simply a trick of the light?  
  
"Lady Eowyn-" and then he stopped, as though his tongue had suddenly failed him. Eventually, he found his voice and went on, "I beg your forgiveness for my trespassing. I-I am not like that."  
  
"Like what?"  
  
Was she toying with him? Now? "I am-it is not our way," was all he said, shutting his mouth, speechless as a scolded child.  
  
Eowyn studied him for a moment and she watched his eyes like a panther. The pupils had contracted, and he stared at the ground as though he expected her to hit him. But she was still, observant, but never judgmental, and in her silence she found a memory.  
  
"I saw you in a dream," Eowyn whispered.  
  
Legolas froze, tense with wonder.  
  
"I was in a field, alight with stars as far as the eye could see. The moon was full and bright, and all the grass looked silver. I though I was alone and lost, until I felt something watching me. But I wasn't frightened by it. I turned and there was someone unlike any Man I had ever seen: fairer, tall, glowing in the moonlight as if under a veil. He looked surprised, but then he smiled and reached out for me. I wanted to run toward him, but then I was afraid indeed. I had never seen one of the Elder People in real life. I thought he might judge me as they say they can, using their eyes to see into one's soul." She stopped, as though ashamed. "I am never afraid. Then, as I began to slowly come toward him, he faded away and I awoke." She sighed looking up. "But now I know it was you. Clad as you are now, in dark greens like a forest, with silver eyes. I knew you when you came here by your eyes."  
  
"You saw me," he whispered, looking away in amazement.  
  
"Without a doubt."  
  
And his heart and mind were one, leaping back to his memory of the vision in Galadriel's gleaming Mirror. "Did you see the Shadow? The one in the sky? It was coming for you, but I had no voice to warn-"  
  
"You had the same dream?" she gasped.  
  
"A dream? No, a vision. I saw you clearly as you are now, upon the same field. But there was a Shadow and it came through the sky, blotting out the stars. You did not see it?" His eyes were wild with fear. "Tell me you saw it."  
  
"But I did not," she replied warily.  
  
"Alas, then," he sighed, defeated. "I know not what it meant. Yet if our meeting came true, I fear it shall manifest as well." He turned a smile to her, full of hope and something like joyful sadness. "But you defeated it. You will defeat it again, no matter what it is. I see it in you, Eowyn, the strength that others may only guess at. It is like a melody that follows you, an unwavering rustle in the grass of Rohan's wide fields."  
  
She tried to understand him, but he seemed even more different now-yet still she moved forward a little and let him drape his slender arms around her waist.  
  
"Ithilwen," he whispered, his breath on her forehead, and closed his eyes, and slipped away. Let the moment last. Their lives were of little importance. Especially his: he was a pawn. She was a goddess.  
  
"What is that word?"  
  
"It means 'moon-maiden.' For you came to me in a dream lit by the light of the moon, and by something else. You are lit by the breath of Varda, by the mingling comets of Tilion and Arien-"  
  
"Such words!" Eowyn laughed, pulling away a little. "I scarcely know what they mean." She looked at him sternly. "Speak simply, lord. I am a simple girl, not a-a moon maiden, or a comet, or a thing of the air. I am here. I am of the earth, more so than you." And to herself, she admired the dark fall of his hair, a sheet as smooth and glossy as water, the pools of his eyes. *You are a thing of all the elements-I see much water. I see the Sea.*  
  
He looked up as though having snapped out of a dream, as though he could read her thoughts. "I must go."  
  
She blinked.  
  
"I take my leave of you, my lady."  
  
"And if I do not grant it?"  
  
He froze again, his heart pounding.  
  
She smiled. "Let us part as friends, Legolas Greenleaf. Grant me that?"  
  
He looked up, marveling at her conduct. "Mellonae. Friends," he agreed, not smiling, for then a moment later he spun on his heel and swiftly quitted the armory, scaling the staircase, gasping in the sunlight, startling a boy on his horse nearby. The wind picked up and the grasses caressed each other, and each blade sang of Eowyn.  
  
She had been calm at the parting. She had been-impassive. And Legolas was reminded once more that he was nothing. He-was-nothing. He meant nothing to the quest, the world, to her, he was an odd little memory she might recall someday, he was a secret she would whisper to a best friend.  
  
Nothing.  
  
But there were two voices in the wind: one was terrible and one was astounding. Both were commanding, both seemed impossibly strong-and he heard, from the East, from the smoky air of Mordor, a little whisper that gnawed at his heart. It called as Galadriel had warned it would call.  
  
But Galadriel had not warned him of the voice that came from the West, from beyond, the voice that came from something impossible for an Elf to behold. And Galadriel had not warned him of the third voice: the voice of a mortal maiden that was greater than the other two.  
  
* * *  
  
She stood alone, soundless and still as a pillar in the dust that had swirled up by his departure, and she realized he had left no scent upon her lips. Not one strand of her hair was out of place. No footprints marked the ground. It might have all been a dream, if not for the steady ministrations of her heart.  
  
She had been right about him. He was a thing of water, and like such a thing, he had simply flowed through her fingers and away, seeping into the earth, misting into the heavens.  
  
* * *  
  
He would not meet her eyes. At night, there was a great feast. They had sat him near to her, a bit to her left, across the table. He barely touched his food, downed one glass of wine, and spent the whole time conversing with Gimli in a very immersed manner. She tried to catch his eye, seeking to guess his mind, but the wall around him was made of ice and fortified with a thousand invisible spears.  
  
Ah, but Théoden was sitting tall again. And Aragorn was interested in holding her conversation. She indulged him, but there was something distracting across the table.  
  
Aragorn was able to draw the Elf's attention once. "Legolas, my friend, the Lady Eowyn says you spoke of the Last Alliance, and of your forefathers."  
  
Legolas smiled blankly. "Indeed. The Lady has an interest in my people, which is a pleasure to behold in these times, our twilight."  
  
She saw a light go out in his eyes when he said, 'twilight.'  
  
Aragorn smiled. "Say not so, my friend. Say not so. There are more like this Lady than you think. If I should come into my own, then all shall know of the great kindnesses of the Eldar."  
  
Legolas smiled again, and turned back to Gimli, and was lost.  
  
* * *  
  
He loved her, and there was nothing he could do about it. Her eyes were painful on his skin. 'Friends.' It was torment. He wanted to be far away-but he knew no land would ever hold peace for his heart.  
  
* * *  
  
Battle came, as it would. And Eowyn was left alone. She was used to being alone. Eomer, though he loved her greatly, was of a different mind. He had friends who shared his council. She was deemed cold by many of the Rohirrim-her friends were few.  
  
Even *he* had left her alone. For then he went with the others. Battle called to them all, but only some could respond and she was not among that select few. It named him a victim, and Aragorn, and the wizard and the dwarf, even her brother, even her uncle, though old. She was truly the only one left.  
  
Léofa was there, clinging to her side. Eowyn had begun to despise this little girl. She followed like a shadow, at once hindering and worshipful. She proved to be a great obstacle when a secret was revealed- and it was to be revealed the day before the departure of the massing army.  
  
* * *  
  
"My lady?"  
  
Léofa stood in the doorway, her mouth stupidly agape, and Eowyn froze with the helm in her hands, the mail shirt hanging off the feminine curves of her body. She blinked and Léofa blinked and then the lady felt her blood boil.  
  
"You have seen nothing," Eowyn hissed.  
  
"But, my Lady-"  
  
"Be quiet, you stupid girl!" Eowyn snapped. She tossed the sword she held into her right hand and brought the tip to the trembling girl's throat in a perfect, swooping arc. "Do as I say and you shall be rewarded, but cross me and you shall taste more than my blade. I am not afraid of anything."  
  
Léofa was so fearful that she was going white from not breathing. Her limbs shook like an aspen tree.  
  
Satisfied, Eowyn lowered the sword and let it clatter upon the ground. The sound shocked Léofa back to reality and the girl collapsed at Eowyn's feet, shuddering with messy sobs and sticky tears. But Eowyn was cold. She was the glacier of the distant mountains. No, there were no mountains in Rohan, but she had seen the last part of the Misty range not long ago. She was like its icy peaks: treacherous, enigmatic, impossibly dangerous, horrifyingly-beautiful. Of that there was no question. She held up a polished shield and gazed at the woman who stared back. Her skin was glowing, her hair so many shades of gold. She was proud of the indifference in her eyes. It was the one thing that could make a warrior beautiful.  
  
She stopped.  
  
Legolas was a warrior, too. But he was unlike any she had encountered before. Just by speaking with him, she knew there was still passion in his eyes when he wielded his blade or let loose his venomous arrows. His face must still harbor something that looked like sadness even when he sank his knife into an enemy, blood running down the hilt onto his strong, slender hands. The soldiers of Rohan were taught to fall into the mind of the wolf pack, though not of the Wargs: in a team one was stronger, but all had the same pursuit. What did the Elves see in keeping an emotional state of presence? What compassion could they find for the hideous, pitiless, and savage orcs? Wisdom, beauty, and lethality: in these, he was her equal. He was her negative, her other half...save this one great difference. He felt, while she was all coldness. He was Elven. He was her superior. Ice. Like the moon: white, gleaming, all alone, unfazed by the surrounding darkness.  
  
"Ithilwen," she whispered to no one and her realization sealed the gap between them. Was it something like the devotion a young warrior has for his admired captain? Yes. But even Eowyn knew it was something more.  
  
Another rift was closed. Race and destiny had meant to rent them apart, but Eowyn was here and Eowyn had a new plan. She needed to understand him, for her own sake. She needed to understand Legolas Greenleaf of the Elves of Mirkwood, the prince of a dwindling race. Yet how could a people as powerful and benevolent as the Elves dwindle? How could he render himself helpless before her? And what had happened in the armory? She knew it was greater than the two of them. It was greater than Elves and Men and anything they might do.  
  
She would find him, and find out, but not now. Now she would watch him. She would study his ways, his every movement, for such study would be a pleasure, if not a privilege.  
  
She would become one with him.  
  
-Fin-  
  
Review and ye shall be rewarded-with, um, seven minutes alone with Legolas in a dark closet. I have influence YET...right...  
  
Continued in Chapter XV - The Battle of Helm's Deep  
  
I hope this wasn't too much of a cliffhanger? I'm such an abuser of the cliffhanger ending. You must forgive me! I shall try to not end on cliffhangers anymore. 


	15. Chapter XV The Battle of Helm's Deep

AUTHOR NOTES: I am making a major plot change here, as well as further developing the characters. A little humor, too...let me know what you think. I'm also using this chapter to reveal a bit more of the sociological differences between Men and Elves, which is what I consider to be a key element in the plot. After all, the whole predicament between Legolas and Eowyn is about that sad, beautiful tension.  
  
A note on what I call the Weakling Legolas Syndrome, that plagues many stories on Fanfiction.Net and other similar sites: what the HELL? It seems to me that in every other fic I read about Legolas he is getting his ass kicked and/or raped by everyone. He's an Elf! HE kicks the ass! That doesn't mean Legolas is immune to weakness. If he was, why didn't Elrond give HIM the ring?  
  
In my story, I wanted to build on the basic outline of the character of Legolas given to us by Tolkien. We know nothing of Legolas' past, nor his relationship with his father. We are never really inside his head. His dialogue is few, and not that revealing. I treated the books' Legolas as a template on which to expand.  
  
I have removed the review commentary, alas. I hope everyone had a chance to read it. I wanted to not have a huge block of writing before the chapter.  
  
And now, onto the fun stuff. Blood, guts, and a little more "action."  
  
Chapter XV - The Battle of Helm's Deep  
  
When Legolas had been very young, he had slipped from the branches of a twisting tree and broken his leg. It had been the prince's first hunting party, yet he was a distracted child and spent more time wandering through the boughs of Mirkwood than seeking the quarry. Wide-eyed, smiling, Legolas had clambered up above the company, following their trail by leaping from limb to limb. One branch was not as strong as it looked, and it split beneath his weight.  
  
Thranduil remembered that afternoon more vividly than his son ever did. He remembered the sound of his child's body hitting the earth, the unmistakable crack, and the gasp that followed. And Thranduil had dropped his bow and sprinted to Legolas' side.  
  
The little prince sat stunned into silence, tears welling up inside his fierce gray eyes. His left leg was bent at an odd angle, and a little dark stain had bloomed on his kneecap where the bone had hit a rock. But he was silent. He bit his lower lip, shuddering in pain, tears noiselessly beginning to trickle down his blanching face. Thranduil's heart shrank in fear as he knelt at Legolas' side, gently laying his palm on the mangled knee, staring into his son's eyes.  
  
"Legolas, does it hurt here?"  
  
The little Elf had slightly opened his mouth to respond, but then the torrent came. He doubled over and sobbed in his father's arms, crying his eyes out, digging his fingers into the pine green of Thranduil's tunic. He burrowed his face against his father, in more agony over his shame than any injury.  
  
And the Elven-King and his son had stayed like that, frozen in their embrace, for what seemed like an impossibly long time, even when the Royal Guard gathered round trying to offer comfort, even when Fimbrethil had come running through the woods to her husband and son. The queen was a skilled healer-they said second only in healing powers to Elrond Peredhil and Galadriel of Lorien. Legolas' tears dissolved into shuddering breaths and hiccups, and his eyes were as gray and hard as the surface of a frozen pond. Anyone could see that he was ashamed to have let his pain show itself so freely. Yet none had judged him for it. He was so young. He was only twenty, not nearly full-grown, not nearly as tall as Thranduil's waist. No one could look at that little princeling and picture the over-six-foot- tall, lanky-limbed warrior that would bloom one day. When that day came, everyone had to agree: the eyes never changed.  
  
As Fimbrethil gathered her son into her arms, Thranduil stood, his hands balled into fists, never taking his eyes off of his child. The queen lowered her hands onto Legolas' knee, and the young prince's eyes snapped wide in pain, his mouth opening and closing like a fish without water. He lifted a little hand to his father and murmured, "Ada." He let out a little sob and said, "I-I didn't look, I just-"  
  
Thranduil had knelt a little, barely touching his fingertips to those of his child's. But something snapped. Legolas cried out.  
  
"Stop it, Thranduil!" Fimbrethil said hoarsely, her face pale with anxiety. "Do not break his concentration. It hurts him."  
  
Then the king stood aloft again, silent as a dead tree, hugging his arms to his sides, watching Legolas suffer again. His heart was weighed down with guilt and helplessness, and the little fingers reached up again and again. The little voice entreated, "Ada. Ada." But all Thranduil might do was stand and watch and wait. They seemed far away then, separated by a wall of mountains, by impassable miles. And now that feeling had come again into the heart of Thranduil Oropherion who paced through the halls of his kingdom, alone and afraid.  
  
* * *  
  
"Legolas!"  
  
Aragorn's steady voiced, slightly tainted by anxiety, was calling to his companion in arms. "We need your sight."  
  
He had not meant to let his mind wander. It had come as easily as a quiet rain in the gray hours of morning. Arod, warm beneath him, was steady and sure. Gimli's arms encircled his waist-the Dwarf was scared stiff of riding any horse, even one as gentle and responsive as Arod. Yet Legolas had disconnected himself from all the lives around him. His soul rose above the grasslands and feathered out into the sky, and half of him plunged through the air and made for the north, ever seeking the heart of his father. The other half...the other half was as rigid as steel, livid, fearful of the lady it sought to glimpse once again.  
  
And a third strand was being teased from the invisible thread that wafted in the air, and this strand was drawn to the salty moisture he could barely sense in the air, something he knew was below the frequency of humans to catch. It was somehow familiar, yet somehow unsettling. It made his heart and throat ache as though he had recently stopped crying. It was like a gentle tugging on his lungs.  
  
The Elf lightly coaxed Arod forward to stand among the horses of his companions as they stood now, smiling blankly despite their fear. He admired them at that strange little moment of uncertainty. He turned to the place where Aragorn pointed and squinted to see. But the distance was long, and the little figures quick. He lifted his hand and used it to shade his eyes against the red sun, gazing deep into the expanse. And then his heart was filled with the sorrow of a soul betrayed, and all the welling of love he had felt for his comrades fizzled away like a dying ember, and a chill ran through his veins.  
  
"Your people confound me," Legolas whispered to no one in particular, eyes wide, staring at the tiny movements.  
  
A murmur rose amongst the Rohirrim. Aragorn rode a little nearer to Legolas and tilted his head: his eyes hurt and confused. "What do you see?"  
  
Legolas lifted his chin, his face a cold, unmoving mask of marble, and said, "Those are Men down there." He let the words sink in, cruel and icy. "Not orcs, Aragorn. Men." Then, in a venomous whisper, "*Your people*."  
  
Aragorn sat dumbfounded upon his steed, staring in horror at Legolas. It seemed to the Elf that this horror was not so much directed at the appearance of human enemies as it was aimed at him. He stared back, impassive.  
  
"Dunlendings," Eomer hissed, as though trying to change the subject.  
  
"Then they shall suffer as any other enemy to the Free Peoples," Théoden declared a little shakily. He rode to where Aragorn and Legolas were, still and cold. His old eyes squinted at the figures drawing nearer and nearer. "Dunlendings indeed. I can see their wild faces from here. They have come for blood, and I fear for something more. Orcwork by Men, in this day! They shall suffer slowly."  
  
Legolas turned to look at the old king, his gaze steely and fearsome. Théoden looked back, seeming suddenly very sad and frailly mortal. "Come this autumn I will have seen the leaves of this world fall 2,814 times, King Théoden, and not once in all those years have I killed a Man." No one spoke. "Tell me how I should begin."  
  
Théoden blinked in response, his mouth slightly open, seeming to be terribly hurt and terribly afraid at the same time. Legolas tasted the bitterness of sorrow in his mouth: he liked Théoden, and wished no ill upon him. He was met with a slew of unfriendly eyes from the Rohirric soldiers, but Aragorn and Gandalf looked simply surprised. He heard the intake of Gimli's breath behind his back.  
  
The wizard seized the awkward moment and burnt it away. "I must leave you now for another errand calls me. Look for the White Rider, Lord Théoden. I shall return to you."  
  
Legolas watched the gleam of Gandalf disappear, wishing he could go with him, knowing that he would have a lot of explaining to do.  
  
* * *  
  
"Something is troubling you."  
  
Legolas laughed. "We are about to have a battle. Are you not troubled as well?"  
  
"No." Aragorn was deathly seriously, his gray eyes steely lances boring into Legolas' face in a way that made the Elf extremely uncomfortable. He was impossibly afraid that Aragorn might peel away the layers of his mind and see a little portrait of Eowyn smiling back at him. "No, it is something else. There is something more."  
  
"I don't know what you're talking about," Legolas replied, almost in a whisper.  
  
"Gimli and I have discussed it," Aragorn went on. "You have been in this state since we came to Rohan. You seem to be drifting, Legolas. Do you feel the call of your home?"  
  
"I always feel the call of home," Legolas answered darkly.  
  
Aragorn stopped, realizing he was treading on very thin ice. Home was obviously a sensitive subject. Legolas' fingers twisted around the shimmering string of his bow, up and down, spiraling, dangerous, ready to snap.  
  
"Perhaps it is nothing then," Aragorn sighed, and turned his gaze over the wall. "Perhaps we are wrong." He wondered in his heart if he felt the call of something else, for he too remembered the words of Galadriel to Legolas. Did his friend hear the call of Death? Was he destined to die at this battle, after they had come so far together? Aragorn's heart seized up with sorrow, and a sudden blaze of love for his Elven companion.  
  
"You ask because of my callous words to you before."  
  
Aragorn kept staring out into the night. After a moment he said, "I am not asking you for an apology."  
  
"I regret what I said, Aragorn. I have spent too much time amongst your people to judge them so harshly, especially now. Men stand to fight the greatest of evils since the Sunless Years, and my people flee to the Havens." Aragorn found himself startled by Legolas' words. His voice was gratingly bitter. "There is still so much to fight for. And many of them know this, they do. Many of us shall fight, though perhaps you shall not see them." A sigh came forth. "I cannot help but wonder what has befallen my kindred, my father, all my friends at home," then, more bitterly, "At least those who are left. When I went from my father's hall, darkness was closing in all around us. Without our fighting it off bit by bit, wave by wave, it would have already swallowed all my kith and kin, and starlight would be banished from Mirkwood forever."  
  
"Do not fear for them, my friend. It may blind you. Your father is strong. Your people are brave and they have been tested before. Do not fear."  
  
"That is all I harbor, now. Fear, and shame, for those who do not stand with us but flee on their gray swan ships."  
  
"You need not. This is not your battle." He sniffed the wind, smelling smoke. He thought of a dark-haired maiden, all alone in Rivendell. Grief constricted his throat. "Your destiny lies far beyond the Sea, in light and happiness, away from this fate. You are free."  
  
A hand came to rest upon Aragorn's shoulder, its light weight suddenly something of great significance. He turned to look Legolas in the eye and found himself lost in the shadowy grays and greens therein, though dimmed by the onslaught of evening. Legolas had never seemed old among the Elves. Galadriel was old, and Elrond, his foster father, was impossibly old as well. Age was in Celeborn's eyes. He had seen it in Thranduil during their brief meetings. He saw it in the many eyes of the Fair Race, but there were four pairs of Elven eyes that always seemed young: Arwen, Elrohir, Elladan, and Legolas.  
  
All that was washed away in this briefest of moments, and Aragorn realized for the second time in his life, that these seemingly youthful eyes were indeed *impossibly* old. They were the windows into the soul of an ancient child of ancient forces that no mortal mind could ever comprehend. There was power there, and great sorrow. It was like the moment he had looked into Arwen's face when they first met, and he had realized how old she was as well, how more akin to Legolas than to him.  
  
Despite the wonderful silence of the moment, Legolas spoke, and his words stayed in the Man's heart for the rest of his life.  
  
"Aragorn, we have not forgotten." The smile, though terribly sad, was genuine and pure. "We will never forget the goodness of your people to our kind. We do not forget it now." There was a flutter in the breeze. "It is you who have forgotten us."  
  
For a brief moment, Aragorn had been stunned into silence, but he found his tongue and almost stammered as he said, "None shall ever-"  
  
"It will happen." Legolas' voice was steady, his eyes sure, compliant and kind. "We knew this day would come. It hurts to disappear without a marker of your passing, but we accept that. We will be the keepers of *your* days. Long after your passing, we will remember you as you really were. Forever you shall be known by the fondest of companions-for we *are* companions, the Elves and the Mortals. We have been placed together on this earth for a greater purpose that we shall perhaps never know save in the furthest parts of our hearts."  
  
"Unless all falls to Darkness," Aragorn realized aloud, his voice so dark and defeated that for a moment Legolas thought he had seen tears in the warrior's eyes. He looked away swiftly.  
  
"Unless."  
  
Aragorn gazed out into the dark, then back at Legolas. "Have you ever thought of what would happen, should...should *He* win?"  
  
Legolas thought in silence, then said, "Often. It is natural for me. Terrible images haunt my dreams as of late without my bidding." He let out a little, cynical laugh, realizing he had kept this inside for some time and was now making a sort of confession. "Sometimes it is as though all my dreams are premonitions, these horrible visions."  
  
"Visions?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"How long have you been having these visions?"  
  
"In all honesty, they began after-" he stopped for the shortest of moments "-I knew we had lost Baran and Silindë to the Shadow. Then they slackened. Now they have returned."  
  
Aragorn stared at the young Elf, horrified and intrigued. "What have you seen?"  
  
Legolas eyes glazed over, smooth as polished glass, and it seemed that another spoke through him. "I see the air thick with flumes of smoke, sparks wafting through the leafless branches of seared trees-bodies of Men and Elves, and even Halflings, litter the barren ground. The only color to be seen is in the swirling oily patterns on stagnant pools of dark water and blackened blood. Yet countless others are kept alive, despite all this death, this deadness that I can smell crisp and sure in the air, even in dreams. They are-" he stopped, then went on, "They are twisted into hideous things, as the orcs were made. Yet my heart tells me they are not of orc- make. They are something more like Nazgûl. Their eyes are lightless hollows. I can see straight through them in my dreams. They are tortured and worked away. There is no sun during the day, no stars at night. The Havens are destroyed. The Seas are slick with oil. Dust is laced in the wind and burns your eyes."  
  
Aragorn felt his heart shrink in fear. He glanced down, and saw Legolas hand resting lightly upon the stone of the battlements. He knew that if he were to touch the skin of that hand, it would feel as icy as frost.  
  
"I see the fates of all Free Peoples," Legolas went on. He was beginning to sound a bit more like himself. His voice was no longer a haunting song. There were strains of genuine sorrow and fear bubbling to the surface. "The Dwarves are set as slaves within the sweltering forges of the Dark Lord. They will find no comfort within the earth anymore. The Hobbits-" his voice cracked "-are mostly killed off. They prove to be too feeble for His demands. Men are slaves and food for the orc armies that grow and grow each day. The victims are the lucky ones. They are herded like cattle into caverns like stables where they are forced to multiply. Then the orcs are set upon them three times a day."  
  
Aragorn's fist around Anduril's hilt was white-knuckled, his jaw set in a hard line.  
  
"And the Elves-" Legolas let out a sigh that was more defeated than tired. "The Elves are lost to the world. He shall divide us. Then He shall punish us for never succumbing to His strength long ago. He will break us and torment us simply for the pleasure of watching it. Some He will forge into orcs as did the Dark One before him, others He will keep as they are, shadows of themselves, and these He shall use in cruel ways. Some shall be slaves, others-others shall be gifts to His officers who have pleased their master." He looked down. "That is our doom, I think. Objectified and mutilated, a ruined race." He sighed. "A ruined world." Then Legolas turned to Aragorn with a wild look in his eyes as though he were making a plea. "Yet it is the tale of Men that saddens me most. I had the dreams in Rohan more than in any other place on our journey. I saw the Golden Hall burning, and the people slain, streaks of blood dried dark in the bright strands of their hair. I saw the children of Edoras spitted on the hillside, and the plains ablaze with fiery ruin. We shall all be bound into His endless circle and nothing shall break it. Not even the Valar themselves."  
  
The whistling wind seemed suddenly a mournful sigh. Aragorn blinked at his companion, rooted in fear and marveling at the powerfulness of the words. It was like standing in the presence of Galadriel. Legolas was a gateway offering a terrifyingly truthful and frank glimpse at what would happen. At what seemed likely to happen, now that their original quest had foundered and they were helplessly trying to divert Sauron's eye.  
  
Legolas was staring at the ground, his fingernail coursing up and down the bowstring, making a soft singing sound. Then the shadow flitted away and he looked up, his gaze melting into the black. "That is all." He dared not speak of the other vision-of the White Lady of the Rohirrim slain, her body upon the burnt grass, ringed in blood, her golden hair like the rays of a sun all around her head, her gray-blue eyes frozen open for eternity. It was this vision, he was sure, that had made him sharpen all his arrowheads and blade edges one more time before this day.  
  
As though the night had heard the tale, it blotted the stars from the sky.  
  
* * *  
  
He had been in true battle before. Once. Twice. Three times. Once for the Battle of Five Armies. Once for the protection of his home, when the Spiders converged at once as they had not since the days of Ungoliant the Black. Once to ward off an army of orcs that had plunged into Mirkwood, that had miraculously sent him here to face their masses again-that had taken his friends from him, sealing them apart for too long a stretch of time. He had fought Wargs with the Fellowship and upon the outskirts of his father's kingdom. He had slain mountain goblins when he had journeyed West. But nothing had prepared him-not the stories of the Great Wars, not the scars upon the elder soldier's arms and torsos-for this.  
  
Orc blood flew from his hands, and he could taste it in his mouth, sickeningly sweet, thick as mucus, clinging to his insides. Orc hands tore at him as he twisted their weapons from their grasps, and they fell to using their nails and teeth, horrible blurs that scraped and ripped into flesh, cloth and even chain mail. Orc sweat mixed with the blood and made his limbs slick, his garments clinging to his limbs beneath the light metal links. And every now and then, an Orc eye caught his own. Before he sent an arrow spiraling into the yellow iris, he glimpsed something that he found to be eerily familiar.  
  
But they saw nothing common in him. They saw lightness and a strange color: the color of goodness, of things they could never touch, nor taste, things they did not know how to even yearn for. He maddened them, more then the horrible flaxen-haired warriors massing all around him. They wanted to latch onto his limbs, to rend him apart, or to rip their jagged blades through his chest. His blood was not easy to shed, but a scimitar had indeed met the dense muscle of his right bicep. The Orcs gazed hungrily at the bright liquid seeping down their quarry's arm, and they opened their mouths as he spun by. Sometimes a crimson drop, like a spiraling ruby, would fly off the Elf and land on their tongues, and for a moment they would taste, like a memory, what it was like to be divine. And then they wanted to kill him even more.  
  
An Uruk gave a deafening bellow near his right ear and brought down its weapon near his head. He met the blade with his own and disarmed his enemy by cutting off the hand near the wrist. But the Uruk grabbed his arm with its undamaged hand to break or disarm him. Cold claws dug into his wound, but he twisted free and delivered his blade into the attacker's jaw. The arrows had been spent long ago, years ago it seemed. More came at him, roaring with bloodlust and madness, yet he danced away, and those who came too near had their faces carved to pieces.  
  
Gimli was strong as a mighty, little mountain, and Legolas loved to hear the ringing of his companion's blade as it careened against the plate-armor of their enemies. He loved the sound and the spark of the axe blade colliding with the stones of the Deep. He loved the rumblings of Gimli's voice as he let out his raspy battle cries.  
  
He loved glimpsing the flash of Anduril in the dead blackness of night, Aragorn's face as stony as an Elven warrior's, his gray eyes flashing with a deadly light.  
  
He loved the song of his knife in his hand, his forest-forged knife, his knife that had been given to him by his father, his knife that had tasted Orc blood long ago when the Last Alliance raged and Thranduil had been a wide-eyed prince thrust into the thick of battle, suddenly weighed down by sorrow and a crown. The pulse of this beautiful knife-it carried through his fingers and formed a barrier around his heart.  
  
There was madness all around him. He was surrounded on all sides, or so it seemed. He could not pick out one human face in the crowd that had massed, closing in, bellowing in deafening tongues, trying to make his movements falter with select phrases in Blackspeech. The fearful memories from the Battle of Esgaroth swam in his mind, but he forced them down and focused on the moon-bright edge of his white knife. The Uruk-Hai tried to hit him from behind, but just before an arm could come around or a weapon could be pressed home, he would spiral to face them and blind them in a single, perfect slash.  
  
Legolas smiled amid the gore, forgetting his pain and weariness, immune to the vertigo of this endless fighting. This was-what was that word? The Elves did not have a word for it-it was a human word, a Westron word. Ah, yes. *Revenge.* This tasted like that word rolling off the tongue. Revenge. And in every drop of blood that fell on him or from him, he remembered Silindë's gray eyes in their last look, a look of frightened betrayal. And Legolas took that guilt and sorrow and forged it into a spike of steel that he drove into Orcish innards. All around him was the dance of death, but he felt like laughing and crying, uncontrollable madness, as his knife flew through flesh and sinew. He let out a war cry his father taught him when he gave him his first bow and plunged his knife into an eye.  
  
And again, another presence: how cunning that they all would attack from behind! He smiled again and narrowed his eyes. There was breath on his neck. There was a life behind him, an arm raised high. He tightened his grips on the hilts and spun around, arm raised to plunge the point into the wretched Orc's vitals-  
  
What was this? No Orc here. At last the buzzing swiftness of combat slowed down and the face that came to view froze Legolas with wonder and genuine fear that shocked him out of his demonic state. For there-half-hidden under the night sky-navy of her hood, distorted by the light reflecting off the links of her chain mail-there was Eowyn. Her face, her beautiful face: there was a small cut under her right eye. Bloodlust of a different nature was boiling up inside him.  
  
The icy rain steamed where it hit their skin. There she was, her blue eyes piercing his soul, so beautiful and grave, strong as the steel they grasped in their bloody hands, so many unspoken words in her gaze.  
  
Without thought, Legolas grabbed her arm and in one gesture he swung her away from the clashing blades and storms of arrows. He felt the abrasion of chain mail on her arm. She tensed her muscles, resisting a little, but knew better than to put up a fight against an Elf in his most combative state. There was a small niche in the stone wall, and there he brought her (not gently), standing in front to guard her just in case of the unthinkable. At last words formed, but barely legible in his emotions. The spiraling world began to slow more purposefully. It was like falling into a dream.  
  
"No. You-you were supposed to be safe." He glanced down at her garb, saw her chest bound flat as a boy's, her long hair half-hidden under her gleaming helm, this covered by the navy cloak, like a cape of a starry night to shield her from the eyes of her kin.  
  
Eowyn did not reply, but her pale hand crept up his arm and moved toward his face. At last she said, "You are not my lord in this matter. No man is."  
  
"Not here," he gasped. "You can't be here. If you get hurt-"  
  
The creeping hand seized the back of his neck, it worshipped the heat radiating off of the spot, and each of them reacted. The Elf suddenly embraced the girl fiercely, winding his arms around her. They kissed each other hard. Desperation and hunger passed between them and was bound into the kiss. He ran his hand up her scalp and his long fingers were in her hair. Her arms were wrapped about him firmly, and her own hands drew forbidden pictures over the warm muscles of his back. Each was content to feel the life in the other, the thundering at their pulse points, the sweet smell of perspiration and rain.  
  
He comically remembered the last words she had said to him, before all this had erupted around them. *Then let us part as friends, Legolas Greenleaf. Grant me that?* The rain mixed with her saliva was like tea flowing over his tongue. His fingers reached up and tangled into her wet hair again, pulling almost painfully. He felt the impossible heat of the living body beneath him, the madness matching the terror of the battle all around them. The rawness of the moment mixed with the stinging of the sleet pelting the open wounds on his arms and back was agonizingly perfect.  
  
Yet he tore his mouth away and spoke, strangely calmed by the experience. "You will go. You were not meant to come here."  
  
"I will not."  
  
"Why did you come, Eowyn? There is nothing for you here."  
  
And she reached out and rested her fingertips upon his breastbone, right above his beating heart. They could not be that different. Their hearts had found a common rhythm.  
  
"I came to see you. I have been watching you. You are a warrior like none I have ever seen." His eyes were cold, disbelieving and unconvinced. She frowned, but had to admit, "I came for a friend. I sought a friend who saw me as I really am. You saw, Legolas. I will never forget that."  
  
"Friends are loyal to each other, and protect each other."  
  
"Then we are not friends," she laughed, and her hand leapt to the back of his neck once more, demanding. He stayed back, feral as a cornered beast, but she brought her mouth to his. Her hunger was fearful and startling, and he felt himself growing more desperate to touch the skin beneath the metal. His eyes were open when they kissed for the third time. He was lost in wonder. He did not know himself. He was lost in the rain and in her mouth, and he never wanted to go home.  
  
Then she pulled back, leaving him gasping for more, and whispered, "No man shall rule me, even in friendship, no matter how steadfast or pure. Know that, if you will know naught else." For Eowyn was proud. She knew a little of the power she now possessed.  
  
He held himself away from her, searching her glittering eyes, and somewhat thrilled by the formality of her words. "Very well." But he did not allow her to savor the victory long. Legolas was a prince. Legolas was an Elf. Above all, Legolas had an ironic sense of humor.  
  
"Yet no mortal Man am I."  
  
With that, he flipped his knife in his hand and slammed the hilt into her torso.  
  
Eowyn gasped once, looking more perturbed than betrayed, and slumped romantically into his arms, limp as a rag doll: a rag doll clad in shining chain mail, smeared with orc-gore. It was the most damsel-like he ever found her to be. Thereafter, she remembered little of the incident, save his words. They came to serve her well.  
  
He lifted her head to check: yes, her eyes had closed and her breath was calm. Legolas had simply stunned her, and he knew that on one such as Eowyn, the effect would not be long-lasting. He had to get her out of the midst of battle and into the caves to rest-and to be in safe hands. Men were dying like flies. He drew some of her hair over her face, disguising it though it needed little help under the sweat and orc-blood, and lifted her into his arms. She was light, he could tell, but the armor was cumbersome and heavy. Waiting for a break in the skirmish, Legolas leapt from the niche and made his way toward the cave mouths.  
  
Eomer called to him from above to his left. "What is it, Legolas?"  
  
"This boy has been knocked out," the Elf replied, yelling over the din of the screams and clashing metal, praying he would not wake her. "The Uruks are being cruel to the bodies of our fallen. I am taking him inside, out of harm's way."  
  
No one, *no one* ever knew.  
  
* * *  
  
Eowyn felt something warm upon her brow, and she twitched, annoyed, and instinctively swung her arms up to seize whatever was touching her. Opening her eyes, she saw the face of a weary but visibly amused Elf. Her hands were clamped around his slender wrist, just above her forehead.  
  
"Did you sleep well?" he asked innocently.  
  
She twisted his arm the wrong way and seethed, "What's going on? How long have I been asleep?"  
  
He was stronger, and pulled away, cracking her fingers in the process. "Long enough. The battle is not over, though. We were forced to retreat."  
  
Her eyes went wild, and she glared around the cavern, seeming not to see the injured men slumped about the place in groups, bloodied, sweaty and some mortally wounded. "The Rohirrim do not retreat. It is not our way." She began to rise, but Legolas place a palm firmly upon her bound chest and gently shoved her back against the wall. "What are you doing?" she demanded through grit teeth.  
  
"The wise warrior knows when to step back from the reckless brawl. You are not going back out there."  
  
Elvish proverbs at a time like this! Was he mad? "You cannot tell me what to do."  
  
"Why not?" He was serious, but he smirked a little. "Would you not listen to a prince?"  
  
"You are not *my* prince."  
  
He did not smile anymore. "Would you listen to King Théoden?"  
  
"Of course. Now let me-"  
  
"I am not finished. You know Théoden would forbid Eowyn-the woman-to fight. You have just said that you would listen to him."  
  
"Are you trying to threaten me?"  
  
He looked into her eyes with a sudden ferocity that made her pause. "I *am* threatening you, Eowyn. You will stay here. If you try to rejoin the battle, I shall see to it that Théoden, Aragorn and your brother all become very much aware of your true identity. Do you understand?"  
  
She was furious. A soft color was rising in her cheeks: it was lovely, but the look in her eyes was anything but. "This is orc-work, Legolas Greenleaf. I would never betray you thus."  
  
"I am not betraying you-"  
  
"You are no different than the rest of them!" she exclaimed. Her voice rose an octave in almost childish frustration. Legolas glanced around quickly, checking to see if any warrior's head had turned at the sound of a woman's lilt. All was safe, but Eowyn herself still looked dangerous. More softly, but as venomously, she went on: "All of my life I have been told what I can and cannot do. It is not fair, Legolas. You are supposed to be different! How can an Elf be as blind as a mortal?"  
  
"Stop it," he entreated. She was being so difficult.  
  
"You still seek to order me?"  
  
"No. Now I am asking you, Eowyn. If I am blind, then you are stubborn and ignorant. I am going to protect you at all costs, even if it means sacrificing your trust of me."  
  
"I do not need your protection."  
  
"It is not worth the risk."  
  
"Risk! What risk is there?"  
  
"You have never been in a battle before, you stupid girl!" he snapped.  
  
She stared at him in horror, and he fiercely stared back. In his face was anger, fear and sadness: a desperate expression, profoundly sorrowful simply because of the Elven shape of his face. Yet Eowyn was infuriated into silence. He had crossed a line that no one had ever traversed once before in her life: he had insulted her to her face. Even her own brother had known better than to do that. The one time in childhood that Eomer called her a name, she had chased him down, thrown him to the floor, and pummeled him with her fists so hard that he received two black eyes and a loose tooth. Yet despite her indignation now, she realized how alike she was to Legolas. They were proud and relentless, headstrong and obstinate. And terrifyingly different. They might as well have existed on two different plains of existence. But the similarities-they were shocking. Quite suddenly, she wanted to laugh. Ah, but she would never give him that satisfaction. They sat seething for a long moment before she finally came to the only conclusion she could think of.  
  
"Leave me," she hissed, looking away.  
  
Legolas seemed to shudder at her voice. "What?"  
  
"Go!" she replied, wheeling on him.  
  
He rose clumsily, as though unsure of his own footing: very unlike an Elf, if legend spoke the truth. Yet before he turned from her he said, "Do you swear to stay?"  
  
"If your threat holds true."  
  
"It does."  
  
"Then I will stay. You leave me with no other choice."  
  
Without another word, Legolas turned. She watched him go, disappearing into the crowd of Men that parted as he walked by. None of the Rohirrim felt truly comfortable in elvish presence. As he passed now, the sorrow in his eyes made them more afraid. It was a shadow of the agony within. She saw the backs of his hands coated with blood-the black blood of Orcs, his own vibrant red life essence. She saw the weariness in his gait. Elves did not become weary in body. They became weary in spirit.  
  
She saw him adjust the quiver on his back, and then he was gone.  
  
-Fin-  
  
Please review, my lovelies.  
  
Continued in Chapter XVI - Eowyn vanimelda, namarië! 


	16. Chapter XVI Eowyn vanimelda, namarie!

Chapter XVI - Eowyn vanimelda, namarië!  
  
Thunder tore the dark sky into bits. For vile, brief instances, the faces around him were grotesquely illuminated-suddenly humans and Orcs seemed eerily similar, eerily related. Often he could not tell them apart. He prayed that his knife went where it was supposed to go. Senses were blurred. Was it rain or blood sliding down the back of his neck? The flashes were blinding. Was it night or day?  
  
Arrows: spent. Allies left on the wall: impossibly few. He stepped as nimbly as he could over the partially decapitated corpse of a Rohan soldier no more than twenty years of age. The almost-severed face harbored a look of surprise. The loosened eyeball had been blue.  
  
Slash. Sweep. Twirl. Stab. The splatter of blood on blood, the slam of flesh on flesh, metal on metal, teeth on teeth. Slash. Sweep. Twirl. Stab. His father had taught him, "Make eye contact with the enemy before the enemy strikes." He had seen so many eyes, eyes frozen in the position of massacre and rage. He had lost track. He hadn't heeded his father's advice for a good part of this battle. He hadn't the strength.  
  
Gimli shouted a number of his fallen over the din of battle.  
  
"Twenty-one!"  
  
Legolas laughed harder than was appropriate, spinning between Uruks, ignoring the throbbing pain in each limb. And he knew his count was uncountable, was impossibly high. So he made up a number, ready to throw the Dwarf off guard.  
  
"Two dozen, son of Gloin. Better luck-" a pause as he drove his knifepoint into an eye socket "-next time!"  
  
Roaring Dwarvish laughter. Neither cared that they were soon to die. Gandalf and Erkenbrand were nowhere to be found. Daylight was an impossible dream now. Darkness was the ultimatum. Desperate, and still smiling maniacally, he looked over the wall once. A sea of black, moving shapes jeered up at him. Spearheads and scimitars glinted in the storm. Over the side of the wall he could see a light-a little torch was moving through the masses of Uruk-Hai. A light. He stared at it, lost, amazed. He realized what was happening a moment later, a moment too late. Then the earth groaned as though it were splitting open, as though a volcano was rising at unnatural speed.  
  
The wall exploded beneath him. Legolas felt himself hurled up into the air like a piece of shrapnel. He couldn't see anything. Smoke filled his eyes and mouth. Intense pain cut through his torso. Somehow he held onto his bow. Shadows flew past him. Stones. Soldiers. Uruk-Hai. The fell like rain upon the inner keep.  
  
He hit something. It was likely a wall. The wind was knocked out of him, his head snapped back and collided with the stone. Immediately he blacked out and fell to his knees, gasping, bleeding, utterly disoriented. Dust and stone fell all over and around him. Booms sounded as pieces of masonry as big as houses slammed back to the earth. Men screamed. Uruks bellowed. One Elf gasped for air. A flume of blood fell from his lips as he coughed. The internal bleeding from hitting the wall was very bad. He could sense that. He would have to stop fighting, or he could die.  
  
That was all he could guarantee. He *could* die.  
  
Somewhere a horn sounded, and the desperate cry: "Retreat! Retreat to the caves!"  
  
Legolas shook his head, and the bones in his necked felt like they were on fire. He used the wall to drag himself up. He looked at the ground around him only once; along with the stones and dust, a rain of human limbs had come down. He tightened his grip on his bow, feeling life return to his stunned fingers, and he began to walk. Then he began to run. He had to find Aragorn and Gimli.  
  
The horn blasted again.  
  
He reached behind him-one arrow left in his badly damaged quiver. It wasn't even one of his own-he had plucked it from the crushed supply of a fallen Rohiric soldier. One arrow. He spun around again. A slight pathway was visible, leading to the stairs, leading to the cave mouth. Where was Aragorn? Where Gimli? The Dwarf had disappeared, his diminutive height hiding him from the fiercely-glittering Elven eyes.  
  
*Focus.*  
  
He sprinted toward the stairs, his calf-muscles seizing up from trauma. He hurtled over bodies, over limbs that still contained some gory animation. Hands reached for his ankles, pleas of help, pleas to be killed swiftly by the kind Elf. But he ran on, knocking his arrow, frantically scanning the dwindling battle for any of his allies. A wave of Orcs came pouring over the wall. Bodies were crushed. He looked away, sickened.  
  
And then: "Legolas!"  
  
It was Aragorn. Legolas' heart sang with joy as he watched the Ranger slice his way through the Uruk-Hai, so near the steps. Aragorn looked torn, and a cut marked his brow, but he had survived the blast. Aragorn he reached the stairs somehow, skipping the first four, leaping up toward the Elf.  
  
"You live! I saw you for a moment, and then the wall blew, and you were gone."  
  
"I think I blew with it," the Elf laughed. Blood run from one corner of his mouth. Aragorn saw this and stopped smiling.  
  
"We must retreat."  
  
"Everyone has gone inside!" Legolas said, narrowing his eyes at a moving target behind his friend. There was the loud, "Fwih-KANG!" as the dart leapt from the string and plunged through the lead Uruk's neck. Legolas grinned and reached forward, catching Aragorn by the forearm. Leaning on each other more than they should have, the weary warriors stumbled inside.  
  
* * *  
  
She had slept again, fitfully, collapsing against the stone wall behind her. A cramp had begun to grow on her stomach, as well as an ugly purple bruise shaped like the leafy hilt of an Elven knife. She was aware of the slick, dampness of the stones around her, and wondered whether this liquid was blood or a simple dripping that came through the roof. She heard the sighs and groans of the warriors around her, and these sounds came together in a sort of rhythm that lulled her into a meditative state, then deep slumber.  
  
* * *  
  
Inside the caves, Legolas' pulse did not lessen. All movement seemed to spin. He awkwardly swiped his knife blade over the fabric of his tunic, then felt the rush of awareness hit him. He walked as swiftly and inconspicuously as he could to where he had last put Eowyn. Anguished faces washed by him. He faintly registered the moans and death-gasps all around him, but his heart was numb to all life in that room-save to one.  
  
Her head was tilted back a little, her neck resting as comfortably as was possible on the grooved stone of the cave wall. A few drenched strands of golden hair had settled over the contours of her face-weirdly angelic in slumber despite the subdued carnage all around her. A dim shadow hid the majority of her visage. For all the world, she was a sleeping boy who had not yet begun to grow his beard.  
  
For a long moment he stood there, perfectly still, gazing at Eowyn with so much love that it was painful. Her breath, steady and tranquil, was a lulling rhythm. Her bound chest rose and fell demurely. Her dark lashes fluttered. Beneath them, he caught the glitter of her eyes. The internal bleeding within his own body had halted, but he knew he was still in pain- yet somehow, looking at Eowyn, he did not feel any of it. It was with great anxiety that he finally tore his gaze away from her sleeping figure and slowly spun on one heel, ignoring the tug of the invisible threads that linked them.  
  
Aragorn, Théoden and a few of the captains were standing in some sort of small circle, more age in their faces than was due for their years. Legolas half-wandered, half-walked over to them, and he caught the dismal edges of their talk. Eomer was missing. So was Gimli.  
  
Théoden's face was hideously pale so the veins near his temples and under his eyes stood out more than they usually did. His eyes seemed to be unfocused on the faces around him. His head slowly shook from side to side, as though Aragorn's words had no impact on his mind. The Ranger saw this, and placed a steadying hand on the king's arm and the old man continued.  
  
"How shall any tower withstand such numbers and such reckless hate? Had I known that the strength of Isengard was grown so great, maybe I should not so rashly have ridden forth to meet it, for all the arts of Gandalf. His counsel seems not now so good as it did under the morning sun."  
  
And Aragorn replied, his tone deep and steady: "Do not judge the counsel of Gandalf until it all is over, lord."  
  
Legolas dipped his chin in thought, his blood-soaked fingers spiraling across his bowstring, its song mournful and keening. He thought of Gimli. He prayed to the Valar, sorrow gnawing at his throat.  
  
Théoden slowly replied, "The end will not be long. But I will not end here, taken like an old badger in a trap." His clouded eyes were alight with a fire the Elf found to be at once disturbing and deeply moving. "Snowmane and Hasufel and Arod and the horses of my inner guard are in the inner court. When dawn comes, I will bid men sound Helm's horn, and I will ride forth." Then, seeing clearly for the first time, Théoden turned to the Man and the Elf at his side. "Will you ride with me then, sons of Arathorn and Thranduil? Maybe we shall cleave a road, or make such an end as will be worth a song-if any be left to sing of us hereafter."  
  
"I will ride with you," Aragorn replied almost immediately. Then he looked to Legolas out of the corner of his eye.  
  
Legolas' eyes were downcast upon his bloodied bow, his long, slender fingers dancing up and down the length of the string. His gray irises, which had seemed so pale a few hours ago, were now wild with storm clouds. At last the Elf looked up and at least one Rohiric soldier took a step back.  
  
"As will I."  
  
* * *  
  
Her dream was not restful, nor was it very long. She had not the will to sleep in mind, only in body. Physical exhaustion and pain had made her collapse with anguish and fatigue. The dreams were just as distressing.  
  
"Ride back," his voice said, speaking in a tongue she did not know yet somehow understood. "If you do nothing else for me, ride back while you may. We cannot save Helm's Deep-we cannot save any of our skins. Ride. Ride before they discover you. Ride before they wrong you. You-must-ride." And then there was a rushing by her ears as though she were on horseback, a breath upon her brow, and then a flash of light.  
  
She woke with a start. A rumbling had begun in the earth. There was the beat of hooves, the cries of men-of battle! She tried to rise, but her body screamed in protest and she collapsed once more. The heady intoxication of sleep clung to her eyelids. *Elf magic!* she realized, angry at that blasted prince who had descended upon her right when she had meant to watch him whirl, killing with a swiftness no Man might match.  
  
"They are riding out to die," a young, battered soldier to her left said to no one in particular. "The last ride...of Théoden."  
  
*Say not so,* she pleaded silently, her heart tight in her chest, anguish stinging her eyes. She tried to rise again, but the pain was too great. Dizziness and fatigue beat her down. She felt helpless and, worst of all, useless. How could she let them die? Her brother. Her uncle who had been her father for so many years. All the brave men of the cavalry that she had known. Aragorn, with the potent eyes. Gimli with his rough laugh. Legolas. Legolas and his sweeping knives, his flying arrows, his face flecked with blood. Legolas with his hand upon Arod's head, a gentle smile curving his lips. Legolas in gray and green, hair tossed by the wind, bending his bow. Legolas pulling down one side of his collar, showing her his skin.  
  
An explosion sounded outside. The caves rattled. Men groaned. She bit back a cry, digging her hands into the rock wall, finding her steadiness again. The noise went on, ceaseless. She strained to hear an Elvish battle cry, but then remembered him as the silent fighter, the noiseless warrior, the unspoken blade amid the chaos of war. How could he die? She had discovered him! How could he leave her? How could he?  
  
Mustering all her strength, Eowyn slammed one palm against the cave wall and shoved herself upward. The exertion made her grunt in pain and weariness, but it was nothing. *Nothing. Stand taller. Straighten your shoulders. You are a warrior of the Rohirrim.*  
  
"It's over," a soldier whispered.  
  
*Now take a step. Your sword is not far. It is no matter. Grab another. There! One lies a few yards away!*  
  
"We're going to be slaughtered alive," a moan realized a little to her right.  
  
Her step faltered, more angry than afraid. Then she planted her heel. Her sight was blurring, but her footing was now sure. The thunder of hooves grew louder and louder. Men clutched at each other in the deep, awaiting their doom. Her strength lessened, her vision spiraling. *Perhaps it is over. Perhaps, Legolas, this is greater than you or I.*  
  
The horn of Helm Hammerhand blared through the valley and the wounded men in the caves fell into silent awe.  
  
She lay back again. Her face was as hard and cold as ice, her eyes staring straight ahead, icy gray, unmoving, unblinking. Light danced off her chain mail and made starry images on the roof above her. Perfectly still, she patiently awaited the end.  
  
* * *  
  
*Perhaps she will have time to run. Perhaps there is a passage out of the caves. Perhaps she has a chance. If not-let them kill her swiftly.*  
  
Legolas flipped his knife in his hand, caught it, and brought his arm down in a graceful arc, cleaving an Uruk's head in twain. Arod whinnied beneath him, bleeding from an ugly gash near his neck. Legolas pressed his knee there, desperately trying to staunch the flow of blood.  
  
His eyes caught sight of a tall, dim forest he had not seen before. He smiled a little. *Visions of home to comfort an Elf on his way to Mandos. How strange.*  
  
The sky erupted with the fierce light of dawn, horns sounded, Men screamed in agony and ecstasy, relishing in their last ride. He thought of Eowyn's beautiful, slanted gray eyes, their dark lashes, the golden fall of her hair. He thought of her graceful hands strong and sure around the hilt of a gold-handled sword. He thought of his mouth crushed against hers, the rain mingling with her saliva. He could die for such a dream. She was a thing to be praised in Quenya. She was a light to be heralded by song.  
  
And then there came another cry, a cry he had not heard before.  
  
"Erkenbrand!"  
  
The riders glanced about wildly, ignoring bleeding wounds and sore limbs. Even Legolas rose up in the stirrups and stared where so many hands were pointing.  
  
And Aragorn laughed and said, "Behold the White Rider."  
  
* * *  
  
Eowyn had been quite ready to die. She had not been prepared to live, nor had she been prepared to be heaved to her feet by a strangely-smiling lad.  
  
"Might I lend you a hand?" a young soldier asked her, smiling with an amiability that thrilled her. No battle pride here: just one soul reaching out to another. Then she remembered who she was, and who he thought her to be.  
  
Eowyn's heart froze, but she cleared her throat and said as gruffly as she could. "No need, my brother." To prove her words she stood. The pain on her abdomen increased. She stumbled a little, but caught herself. The young soldier stared at her in apparent bewilderment. She prayed he did not note the willowy quality of her calves under the chain mail. She lifted her head and stretched in the most masculine way she could, then strode away.  
  
The Men sleeping or groaning in pain around her had begun to rise, stretching their limbs and lending shoulders to those unable to stand alone.  
  
A little sunlight came in through the wooden door fixed to the cave mouth. Limping a little, she stepped outside, drawing her navy cloak around her to ward off the chill of morning. Many of the Men were riding or running toward a green in the distance. She spied a forest there that she had never before seen, as well as several small figures parlaying. One was clad in the purest of whites. That was Gandalf. And a bit to his left: she thought she saw a tall, slender figure wielding a beautifully-curved bow. Mustering all her self-control, she turned away from the vision, focused on one thing: getting home.  
  
Horses were being saddled, riders were readying themselves to make for home to resupply or heal nasty wounds. She knew she must join them. Had she not been given the strictest of orders to stay at home? Were they not expecting to find her there, to tell her of the battle? She must not tarry. Ducking her head, masking her voice when she had to, Eowyn followed the departing. She found a riderless cavalry steed, ignored the blood all over its saddle, and mounted it in as much of a masculine manner as she could. Then she joined the leaving column. Her advantage was in the fact that she was a fast rider, and sped before them, crossing the plains in nearly half the time it had taken her comrades in arms to return home. She kept to herself, not speaking, not smiling, only pressing her steed onward, faster, as though afraid. The Men who rode a bit behind her were laughing with joy, but she was silent.  
  
* * *  
  
Léofa met her at the agreed spot. Eowyn tore off her helmet, sweaty and rusted from the rain. She fled to her chamber and unwound the cloth around her breasts, gasping with relief at the loss of pressure. Then, with joy, she collapsed on her bed, catching the covers in her fists. She felt profoundly ready to burst into tears. She never cried.  
  
*Why did I listen to you? Why was I compelled?* She had thought, for some crazy reason, that he might follow her here. She had thought he might be here waiting for her. But he was called away. She needed to let him go. She was not one to get attached. Yet he was the only one-and he, a thing of a different race entirely! Was she so odd that no other human might understand her? Did it take the steady eyes of an Elf? She gasped for air, and tears threatened, but she held them back. Why had fate doomed her to become drawn to one she was never meant to know?  
  
Tears stung Eowyn's eyes, but she was far too proud to ever let them fall, even then, brutally alone.  
  
-Fin-  
  
Give the baby a review, please.  
  
Continued in Chapter 17: Whispers of Home (Saruman is making an appearance, also: what ever became of the Elves taken from Mirkwood?) 


	17. Chapter XVII Whispers of Home

AUTHOR NOTES: Please note that much of this chapter uses verbatim dialogue written by Prof. Tolkien and it is his own work. I make no profit from this. It is a labor of love.  
  
Chapter XVII - Whispers of Home  
  
"Before you enter, Prince Legolas, prepare yourself."  
  
This was the only warning that Atavodain, war marshal of the House of Oropher, bestowed upon a wide-eyed boy who had just lost his mother to a Spider ambush at dusk the same evening. The older Elf would not look his prince in the eye, yet seemed to have his gaze fixed on something just beyond-seeing through the youth like a transparent wraith. He lifted a heavy hand and gestured to the starkly lit doorway. The anguish in the concealed room was a steady hum.  
  
Legolas lifted the door curtain to the side and stepped blinking into the candlelit room. His senses absorbed everything at a rapid rate, his heart shuddering in his chest: long shadows, the smell of candle smoke, a slender bed with a form upon it, the heat of the small gathering of living bodies, the coldness of one. It took him a long moment before his eyes would focus upon the figure of his mother a few feet away.  
  
Fimbrethil's perfect stillness gave her features a waxen quality. The natural blush in her cheeks was replaced with a white sheen like newly polished marble-not wholly unattractive, but alien and strange. Her eyes were closed, but only slightly. He glimpsed a dark glitter from somewhere beneath her dead lashes as though she were secretly watching him, playing a little game. The lips were slightly parted, grayed, but beautiful and full. Around her throat was a lovely white scarf that hid her death from her son's eyes-still, the creaminess of the cloth was giving way to a deep, crimson stain, slowly drying out in the warmth of the room. The fingers of her hands were slightly curved, forever frozen in an eerily lifelike position, beckoning to her child-her beautiful, treasured son.  
  
Her husband sat beside her, invisible to the young prince, absorbed in nearly equal stillness. The king looked up for the first time when his son entered the room, still slow, still inert from sorrow. The sight bit into his heart. Thranduil did not like the look in Legolas' eyes. There was something silently screaming therein, their usually soft gray turned steely and cold. The prince stood rigid, unable to move forward or back. The tableau of his mother's death had frozen him in his stance. And Thranduil thought that if anything were to touch his son-a finger, a falling leaf-the wondrously sad statue would shatter into a million gleaming shards.  
  
The king found his footing and rose. Somehow he walked across the room and reached out a quaking hand to steady Legolas' unmoving shoulder, softly whispering his son's name.  
  
"Legolas..."  
  
The vision awoke. Legolas swung his head up and threw his father a look of such fear and confusion that Thranduil felt himself overwhelmed with unexpected emotion. Legolas took a step back. And another. He reared back from his father's hand like an unbroken horse, taking the slightest inhalation of breath. Then father and son froze like waves upon a wintered shore.  
  
"My son," the King entreated, his voice liquid with tears, trying to reach out again, seeking the comfort of contact.  
  
But Legolas' reason had escaped him. He turned from his father, from his people, from his mother's body, and fled from the room as fast as his legs could carry him. He heard his father cry out wordlessly-or was that his name? He didn't care. He flew through the halls, hurled open the eastern gate and exploded into the night forest.  
  
Still he ran. Farther and farther, and the trees did not hinder his strides. He leapt over protruding roots, over slender forest streams. Thorny branches and undergrowth scraped against his shins, but he was numb to all feeling other than the crushing sorrow boring down upon him. He thought he could sense pursuit in the back of his mind, something instilled in him by his teachers, but none of it mattered. Whether it was the Royal Guard coming to fetch him home and comfort him, or fifty renegade Spiders coming to slaughter him alive, Legolas didn't care. He plunged deeper into the woods until at last he glimpsed a ring of moonlight silvering the grass of a tiny clearing.  
  
As soon as he reached the open air, his knees buckled and he fell forward onto all fours and wept. His tears were silent save for the heaving breaths blazing in his lungs. The nearly mute sound of Elven steps echoed behind him, but he was oblivious. A warm hand fell upon the small of his back, but it was too much to bear. He let the reaching embrace encircle him and collapsed breathlessly in his father's arms. He was thirty-five, long- limbed, finally beginning to bloom into the startlingly beautiful warrior his mother had whispered he would become. The tears ceased. The breath stilled. Father and son remained entangled as they had not been since Legolas was very, impossibly young.  
  
For the first time in their short life together, they were irrevocably alone. It would not be the last.  
  
* * *  
  
Legolas could clearly see the outline of the great wall that rimmed the dike at Helm's Deep. It was considerably more ragged than it had been when the host arrived before the battle. With his race's sight he could just make out the rust-colored streaks of spilt blood that had dried down the sides of the rough-hewn stones. A few blonde heads could also be seen- soldiers moving along the wall, gathering arrows, attending to the dead and dying. He strained harder, slightly leaning forward onto his bow-no, none of those golden heads belonged to Eowyn.  
  
A bit behind him, scores of Men were discussing the road ahead, and the White Rider stood in their midst, silently listening to all the suggestions. Many wished to return to Edoras, where they might regroup and strike out stronger. Théoden seemed somewhat unsatisfied with this route. At last the old king spoke up, looking to Mithrandir.  
  
"And Saruman? What is to be done with him? Will he be able to strike out at us once more?"  
  
Gandalf's eyes twinkled. "That I doubt."  
  
"Then what shall we do with him?" Aragorn asked.  
  
"We shall ride now to meet this wizard," Gandalf said coolly. "Though I think Saruman may have already been met with something he did not expect."  
  
Legolas turned to the wizard, his eyes a question, but Gandalf glanced at the surrounding forest and smiled.  
  
* * *  
  
"There are eyes! Eyes in the trees!"  
  
The riders stopped, horse hooves beating their panic into the grass- it flew through the earth and made the maddening leaves rustle.  
  
A stirring came forth from the center of this wood, a small tremor felt only by Gandalf and the Elf, visible to the mortals simply as a little ripple in the grass around the forest's edges. Legolas urged Arod forward one step-then another. The eyes glittered in response. He could smell something old and fecund coming from the forest, something primeval and very powerful.  
  
From somewhere behind him, the surprisingly small voice of Gimli issued forth. "Nay, Legolas! I do not wish to see such eyes."  
  
Yet Legolas stared ahead, eyes focused nearly sightlessly upon the glistening wood. It was like home, but something more. There was something commanding hidden in this wood, almost like the presence of an Elven ring of power. But it was not an Elven feeling. It was something older still, old as the hills, a gift from the Valar themselves. He had to know what it was.  
  
"Stay, Legolas Greenleaf!"  
  
And quite suddenly, he stopped. Or Arod stopped on his own. All motion ceased. The very wind seemed to still at Gandalf's voice. At the core of his heart, Legolas felt a tugging sensation. His lungs burned a little with the effort to pull forward. They fought for a moment. But Gandalf was the stronger.  
  
He turned his head and looked at the wizard, his gray eyes full of sorrow. Gandalf nodded a little, not chiding nor reprimanding, only equally aware of the Elvish desire to see a thing of his forefathers' world. Soundlessly, Legolas urged Arod back and they rejoined the company.  
  
"It is a thing of great beauty to you, I know," said Gimli softly. "But let me tell you, Legolas, if it may ease your heart, of a beauty of a different sort. Let me tell you of the Glittering Caves of Aglarond."  
  
* * *  
  
That night, camped beside a few low hills, the company received little sleep. Legolas took no rest whatsoever-rather, he paced up and down the short length of the grounds, humming to himself, sometimes letting a few words slip through.  
  
In far green fields beneath the stars  
In twilight, wide and still,  
She stands and dreams of distant wars,  
Pale as the niphredil  
  
He sang where they would not be able to hear him, and he sang in Sindarin, keeping away from both Gandalf and Aragorn. He was left to lull warriors to sleep, none guessing at the scandalous quality of his verses. The tired soldiers nodded their praise, thanking him for his beautiful voice. He nodded back, his eyes trained on the stars.  
  
Eyes take the gray of morning mist  
The moon alights her skin  
Hair cascades in a golden wave  
The fairest of her kin  
  
A glance like ice, a step like rain  
A touch like wind and water  
She is both like and unlike me  
She is a mortal daughter  
  
I come from forest and from glade  
Not bound by mortal ties  
They count me lost among my kin  
Entangled in her eyes  
  
The wind became unspeakably cool for a moment, settling onto each pale hair on the back of his neck. He shivered, still distracted by his own lyric crafting, and then stopped. His senses became alerted to the presence of a very potent evil, slow and cunning, a condensing of the air racing toward them with frightful speed. He spun around and glared into the gloom. A few awakened soldiers saw him, his body rigid, eyes gazing into the blackness of the distance. They too looked where his focus lay, and saw nothing-for a moment.  
  
If the night air could become thickened, a heavy mass rolling over the hills, thicker than water, thicker than blood-it did so then. The wind coagulated, the blackness of evening became a heavy, oozing shade that raced toward the encampment like a flood out of Mordor. Voices sounded in alarm. Warriors stood up uneasily, drawing swords.  
  
Legolas turned away from the oncoming mass, desperately seeking Gandalf. The wizard's white robes made him glow a little, even without the moon above them.  
  
"Stand your ground!" the wizard cried. "Draw no weapons. This is a gloom sent by Saruman. It will pass."  
  
Bewildered, the Elf turned back to the blackness, now even closer. He let go of the hilt of his knife and felt it slide back into the scabbard. Behind him, a young warrior whispered something in the tongue of the Rohirrim, something that sounded like a prayer or a chant to ward off evil. A moment passed. Suddenly it was a few feet away. He planted his feet, closed his eyes, and ceased to breathe.  
  
Like a wave of numbing madness the blackness washed into the camp. Legolas felt his footing strain-the pushing sensation was real. The darkness was tangible and it was flowing over him like warm water. It was clinging to his garments, to his hair, like a real liquid. And just as suddenly as it had hit him, it was over. He stood in the cool night unhindered, no trace of shadow left upon him. He turned his head and looked behind. Figures emerged from the black, as though the moon were casting light upon armored Men as it moved through the sky.  
  
That was the only interference they felt that evening-still no one found any sleep, not even when dawn began to twinkle upon the hilltops.  
  
* * *  
  
When the host reached the gates of Isengard, Legolas had felt something that made his heart constrict within his chest-something that wounded his spirit, for it summoned up many memories, and most of them were of his father's kingdom far away in the North. For entering the perimeter of Saruman's fortress Legolas saw the torn stumps of many trees. He could see that once they had been great, for their rings remained visible, wide and many. They were as wide as tables, but raggedly sawn by stupid orcs with nothing but contempt for the living world.  
  
Legolas dismounted from Arod to lead him over the awkward terrain. Bits of stone masonry the size of horses littered the ground. Everything was slicked with water. Vast pools reflected the gray sky. In the distance he saw Orthanc rising from the earth like a flume of black water. It was obviously Man-made, but something about it was off. It had been altered through a different craft, a craft he knew only one of the Istari could possess.  
  
His blood boiled as he tasted the bitter essence of betrayal. He had not felt truly betrayed before that moment, not even when the reality of Boromir's death and Frodo's disappearance had become apparent. Legolas was an Elf who had, for much of his long life, been brought up amongst his own kind. He was unused to many things, such as the frailty of mortals, and their misuses when corrupted. He had seen evil Men. But this-a wizard was a thing of the Maiar world. Had the very Valar betrayed them?  
  
He knelt and placed his hand upon the surface of one tree stump. The pain of its death seeped into his palm, a dying gasp, cool and numbing. He shut his eyes and sighed, then continued on his way feeling a terrible, gnawing sorrow.  
  
But then something remarkable happened. Certainly it was not a miracle in the common sense of the word. It was only a voice: light- hearted, high-pitched, laced with mirth. And Legolas recognized it immediately.  
  
"Welcome, my lords, to Isengard. We are the doorwardens."  
  
* * *  
  
Gimli had been the one who demanded to be allowed an audience with Saruman. Legolas had had no desire. But the dwarf seemed to have volunteered him, too, and so the company reached the gleaming steps of the tower of Orthanc, and stood at ready in its slender shadow.  
  
Gandalf announced them, though such seemed unnecessary. Legolas recognized Wormtongue's scratchy voice inquiring, "Who are you? What do you wish?" The Elf almost laughed. He looked forward to having the little snake of a Man come to the window. His bow was at ready, after all.  
  
But Wormtongue did not come. A wizard came.  
  
Legolas had first heard of Saruman from his father and the elders in his homeland. They said that he had the power to assume any guise he wished. Thus Legolas was unsure whether or not this old man was indeed the manifestation of the wizard Saruman. He saw white hair streaked with black and keen, dark eyes. He could not help but notice that the eyes were startlingly similar to those of Gandalf.  
  
When Saruman spoke, his voice was fair as that of an Elf-lord's. Its lilt was musical and smooth, like water rushing over stones. But Legolas could sense the poison hidden within the stream. As he glanced around at the faces of his mortal companions, he saw that many of the riders could not sense this. They stood rooted, as though they had been bewitched. Only Aragorn seemed truly unaffected by Saruman's voice.  
  
The wizard of Orthanc addressed Théoden first. He went on in lyrical prose about the greatness he could still offer to the King of Rohan. He poetically mourned the apparent 'needlessness' of the battle they had fought two nights ago. He promised glory and forgiveness. Legolas seethed. Théoden seemed dangerously reflective.  
  
But Théoden was cut from the same cloth as Eowyn. Legolas thanked the Valar for the stubbornness of the Rohirrim. He retaliated against the syrupy voice, his aged tone sounding brassy against such flowing music. He stood strong and denied any such peace with the former White Wizard and the wrath of Saruman exploded above them. Down rained insults and jeers with a bite that could actually be felt. But then the wizard calmed himself, and turned his gaze.  
  
He looked at the Elf.  
  
Legolas, who had stood silent and as equally defiant as his companions, suddenly felt a wave of nausea come over him. He remembered the darkness of the months before-the stinging of the Black Breath, the horror of the Nazgûl-yet this was a different evil, not fully born of Sauron. For the first time, his gaze fell from the tower. He stood blinking at the ground for a moment, trying to compose himself. It was a pain as though he had been staring directly at the sun. Looking up again, his Elven sight revealed Saruman staring at him intently and with keen interest.  
  
"Ah, yet here at least is one member of your party whose royal blood cannot be questioned. Mae govannen, Legolas Thranduilion. How came the nobility of Greenwood the Great to slip to such a level as to mingle with the feeble hopes of Men? Have you not thousands of years upon these children on horses? The last true prince of your people, *here* among this rabble! Among the ragtag Fellowship as well it would seem! You are but an ambassador of a forgotten people to a doomed cause. How far the Eldar have fallen."  
  
Legolas resolved to remain silent. Saruman chose otherwise.  
  
"Why is it you allow them to lead you, perhaps to your death? Or worse? The Lord of Mordor will take no pity upon the Fair Folk. You must flee, Legolas Greenleaf, while you can and take your entire people with you. They cannot survive this war."  
  
He thought of Galadriel's warning and felt a pang of cold fear and bitter sadness. Part of him-a part he had tried to conceal-suddenly cried out for his father. A breeze drifted in from the North. But still he was silent for a long moment, measured, still, and then he spoke.  
  
"You were great once, Saruman, and moved many of my forefathers. You were trusted with knowledge we never should have bestowed upon you. And now: you have fallen beyond redemption. It is true. I *am* an ambassador. And as a representative of my people I may tell you freely that you shall find no safety nor welcome among our kind when your doom has been wrought and the friendship of Mordor fails you. Go forth from your fallen relic of a tower while the other races are more lenient."  
  
Yet the wizard only laughed, and continued in a keener tone: "And you? Where will *you* go when this fruitless war has ended? Do you know of the battle your father fights under the eaves of your home? Many of your people have lost their lives. The Spiders stir, stronger than ever. They assault the Woodland Realm in droves, as they have never before been mustered since the days of Ungoliant. The Mountain Goblins brave the wood as well. Fires rage through even the strongest parts of your precious forest. Thranduil's grasp on his kingdom slips a little each day. The stress of a lost son would break him, I think. Let us pray nothing befalls you, for his sake. Then again, he is already so broken." He paused, his face unreadable, then spoke with a maliciously calm tone. "I have seen it, Legolas, and you know that I have no reason to lie to you. I see that your father ages like a mortal Man. He is weakened by your absence, and he is wounded. Your people rally around him, but they have put their hope in a flawed vessel. They grow weaker each morning. Scores of them are lost to the darkness as evening comes, for this night is unlike the peaceful starry evenings of which you Elves are so fond. This darkness is stronger than anything you have ever seen. It flows freely from that southern tower your kind will not name. You know of which I speak."  
  
*It's a lie, he is lying, he is trying to ensnare you as he did once before. Do not give him the satisfaction. Fight him. Gandalf is here. Galadriel watches over me. My father is strong and my people resilient.*  
  
"I speak the truth, Prince Legolas. You may choose to turn your eye from it if it is your will. Would it not hurt King Thranduil to be thus neglected? And what is to become of your leafy home?" Saruman stopped and laughed breathily, his eyes gleaming. "The wrath of Dol Guldur has been unleashed."  
  
"Enough!" bellowed Gandalf, raising his staff, spreading his arms. "Let him be, Saruman, betrayer of the Free Peoples, and seek to turn your eye from the Elves. They have turned themselves from you"  
  
Suddenly, the noise from the tower was a high-pitched shriek so horrible that it took Legolas a moment to realize it was a voice speaking. "Have they? Have they? Yet I find uses for them still, the Ghostly Race, the Faders! I find many countless uses. Especially with these stupid Mirkwood Elves so close by, without a little ring to shield them. Ha!" There was a cackling laugh. "Ah, but this little prince does know of that which I speak once again! Quite clever is Thranduil's boy. Not clever enough, though. He thought they were taken to Dol Guldur. Wrong tower, Prince Legolas, wrong tower. Now the prince knows, for every vein in his heart is full of the truth of it."  
  
Legolas heard a small voice inside him chanting a horrid thing. Anguished, he ignored it, staring up into the wild eyes above. Saruman stared back. The wizard's face was changed into something hideous and inhuman. He looked positively orc-like, a demon of the early years of the Quendi. The Elf caught his breath.  
  
"He remembers the two who were taken...not long ago...just beyond the borders of that precious palace he calls home."  
  
The nausea turned to horror, welling up inside him, threatening to burst from him in the form of a scream. Saruman, in his cunningness, had managed to dig up that monumental guilt he has just managed to hide.  
  
"And he knows, for he is learned. Once he was even wise. He knows what uses an Elf may provide, even now, even dwindling and weak." Another low chuckle. "Get them to speak? No, no, not Elves. They will reveal nothing to you. They will not swear to you that they know nothing of any such Ring of Power. No, Elves are strong, as cool as ice, immovable." High above them, he grinned. "Until you twist them. Until you use them." The chuckle erupted into a torrent of laughter. "Did you not pause, Legolas Greenleaf? Did you not see something familiar in those Uruks you butchered so blindly?"  
  
*Stop*, his mind and heart pleaded. *Stop.* Silindë's face was everywhere. The smell of Elf-blood wafted all around him. They were calling his name, frightening whispers, demanding that he remember.  
  
The ring of Rohirrim was silent, confused by the confrontation, yet they gathered some of what was being implied. Eomer shuddered a little against his will. He remembered the whispered stories of the Fair Folk's fallen kindred who now roamed in the dark places of the earth, twisted and hideous. Théoden, too, knew a little as well. None knew better than Legolas, certainly, but both Gandalf and Aragorn had been stunned into silence.  
  
Saruman's laughter ceased and he went on. "Yes. It is true. It has not been done since the Dark Days. Since the time of the very first Dark Lord. But times have changed. Times have changed." The wizard cackled again. "You would have been proud, though. They fought me till the bitter end. No amount of pain or torment could break them. Mirkwood Elves through and through. But what good did it do them?" Saruman fixed his gaze on Legolas again. The Elf no longer looked at Saruman. He looked straight ahead, but his eyes saw nothing. "Even their names I never learned. But it does not matter. Their lives were meaningless to your own kind-else they would never have been mine to corrupt. But I gave them uses. I made them into something truly powerful."  
  
Legolas let out a breath, his eyes still sightless, and felt his knees giving way. In a heartbeat Aragorn was beside him. He leaned heavily upon the Man, thankful for the strength he felt. Aragorn did not look at him. He let Legolas withstand his pain as he would have wanted.  
  
"You hide many things from them, Legolas Greenleaf!" came the final words addressed to him-for in the next fleeting instant, the Elf realized how much he had let his guard down and focused his eyes. He took one step back away from Aragorn, cast his gaze upon Gandalf and said, "I am through with him."  
  
Gandalf nodded, though his eyes reflected the sorrow and pity he held for the Elf-prince. When Mithrandir turned his glance and looked up at Saruman, his gaze was so powerful that the entire tower seemed to shudder. "Saruman!" he bellowed. The other wizard shrank away from the window a little bit. But then the wizard lessened the intensity of his tone. "It is I who have come to speak with you, and it is with me whom you must now contend."  
  
Saruman smiled. "Ah, but you, Gandalf! For you at least I am grieved, feeling for your shame. How comes it that you can endure such company? Murderous cavalry, would-be kings, immaterial Elves. For you are proud, Gandalf-and not without reason, having a noble mind and eyes that look both deep and far. Even now will you not listen to my counsel?"  
  
Legolas was staring at Gandalf, gazing longingly at the wizard's upturned profile. He wondered whether or not Saruman could pierce Gandalf as he had pierced his own, Legolas', heart.  
  
But Gandalf was one whom the Elves had always trusted, Mithrandir who had come to Mirkwood when Legolas was not yet half his father's height. Gandalf was a Maia, one who had been tested by the Valar. Had not Frodo offered him the ring? Gandalf was the stronger. He would prevail.  
  
The wizards continued their parlay, and Saruman was beaten down-not harshly, no, but with the wisdom of Mithrandir, the White Rider. His staff was taken from him and broken: the top fell from the tower and splintered near Legolas' feet. At last he disappeared from view, and a shadow lifted from every heart-none more than that of Legolas.  
  
But something glinted above their heads. Legolas looked up swiftly and ducked out of the way, seizing Aragorn's shoulder and taking him with him. A black crystal globe slammed into the stair they had been standing on. The stair shattered, but the ball was unscratched and whole, nestled in the crater it had made. Then it rolled away into a pool at the base of the stairs, and Pippin went after it.  
  
"A palantir," Aragorn breathed.  
  
Legolas looked up. "Saruman would not be one to toss down things from the window. Wormtongue."  
  
Gandalf retrieved the globe from Pippin. "It is not a thing, I guess, that Saruman would have chosen to cast away." The company began to descend the stairs. Gandalf rested a hand on Legolas' shoulder and said, "Be at peace, son of Thranduil. Many suffer in the time of war. Do not suffer needlessly, at the dark arts of a fallen rogue." His dark eyes twinkled. "Besides: Sauron will not be pleased when he learns he has been thus tricked by his servant."  
  
Legolas smiled with great effort. His heart still felt as though it had been sliced in two. Gandalf saw the dullness in the Elf's eyes and said, "Legolas, I wish for you to come with me." He nodded to Aragorn and Gimli. "You two as well. There is someone you must meet."  
  
They passed under the archway of the gates of Isengard, stepping into the sunlight. A wood surrounded the basin-a glittering, shifting forest full of life and movement. Legolas smiled weakly at it, though it stirred up even more homesick feelings that burned his throat.  
  
"It is beautiful," he said to Gandalf, thinking the sight his gift.  
  
But from between the trees came something remarkable. They were like the trees themselves, woody and green, moss-laden and leafy-but they had eyes, dull golden eyes that glowed like summer fruit. They were tall, and their steps graceful, and they came striding up to meet the companions.  
  
"Here are three of my companions, Treebeard," Mithrandir said, beaming. "I have spoken of them, but you have not yet seen them. Here is Aragorn of Men, Gimli of the Dwarves of Erebor...and Legolas, who hails from the Elves of Mirkwood."  
  
Legolas and Treebeard locked eyes, and all the sorrow and pain lifted from the Elf's wounded heart.  
  
-Fin-  
  
Please review.  
  
Continued in Chapter 18: The Quendi and the Edain (which will include a good ol' confrontation with Aragorn, who's going to discover a bit about his Elf companion) 


	18. Chapter XVIII The Quendi and The Edain

AUTHOR NOTES: I know, I know. It took forever. I offer up this in my defense: I've just finished my first semester of college! The change in my life was quite severe (for the good, I'm happy to say), and it took me away from my story. I've been stuck with writing essays and exercises and whatnot. The truth is I could write this story swiftly-I already know how it is going to end, and all of the plot twists along the way-but I don't want to. I'm not going to post swill. I want to give you something worth a read. A lot of thought goes into my writing, but it does take time.  
  
I have updated every chapter preceding this one-fixing nearly all the typos and repetitive words. Please feel free to point out anything I've missed-I HATE hitting mistakes when I'm reading a story. I've also lengthened quite a few scenes. Might be worth another read. This chapter may undergo some changes as I have posted it as soon as it was done, without giving it a final proofread.  
  
I finally got to see "The Return of the King" and I don't think I've ever cried that hard, publicly, for a very long time. Already I'm bursting at the seams for the Extended Edition. Not nearly as much Eowyn as I would have liked, though. And Legolas didn't have many lines. But I find that for his portrayal in the films, actions speak louder than words. Certainly he turned out to be a lot prettier and lighter than I ever pictured him (that last shot of him in that prom tiara, ha ha), but I love that both Peter Jackson and Orlando Bloom captured his sort of samurai quality, which I have tried to include in my story.  
  
Alas for the scoring! I miss it as well. I know that I have skipped the musical element of quite a few of these chapters. I decided to remove the score from this version. One day I'll go back and put the soundtrack in, I swear.  
  
I am proud to announce a wonderful, beautiful website you must all check out: The Leaf Storm fanlisting! The address is: - angl.com/  
  
Go to the above website to see a full archive of the Leaf Storm story thus far, as well as a preview of Chapter Nineteen! Oh baby. The archive of Leaf Storm is in a much prettier format than here at FF.net. But remember THE ONLY WAY TO PREVIEW UPCOMING CHAPTERS is to visit the fanlisting! Aight?  
  
Knowledge of the novels is essential to fully comprehend the following story, as always, but this chapter skips around more than most of the previous. Upcoming chapters may be similar. Also there is some verbatim dialogue in this chapter, which may spoil the book for some readers. But I honestly shouldn't have to convince you to read one of the great literary masterpieces of all time, should I? Right on.  
  
Chapter XVIII - The Quendi and the Edain  
  
In less than a day the company had been rocked by two extraordinarily ominous events: a winged Nazgûl had flown over Isengard, filling every heart below with cold, gripping fear, and Pippin, the most innocent among them, had gazed into the Palantir. And while, in truth, the former event caused Legolas greater strain upon the body, it was the young Hobbit's pain that had moved him the most. He had not been there to help him. The Elf had been resting-his hands folded over his breast, his eyes gently staring up at the stars. His dream had come like a gentle rain after years of drought, for he dreamt of Eowyn.  
  
She was in Edoras but the great hall was empty. All the people-the guards, the servants, the courtiers-were gone. The aisles were silent. The doors had been left unlocked and a strong wind came and flung them open. The sound was startling, but the vision of Eowyn did not seem to notice. She stood straight and still behind Théoden's empty throne. Dust lay upon its seat and armrests; flecks of dust swirled in the light. The hall looked like an ancient relic. Legolas was reminded of the time he had first seen her standing there. Then the room had seemed still and empty as well, but the explosion of lightness he had felt then was not now returning.  
  
Eowyn stood staring out through the open, swinging doors-out over the valley, beyond the mountaintops. Her golden hair was lightly tossed and her lily-white garments rustled, but her face remained still.  
  
Legolas found himself in his dream, a sort of melting sensation, and approached the dais slowly. He did not speak. His feet made no sound. When he was near her, he reached up to catch Eowyn's hand. As he took it, he felt her touch as cold and as smooth as steel. Her face and fingers were unresponsive, her gaze still focused at some point far away. He turned to look where she looked.  
  
A white tower rose at the foot of the mountains. Around it were seven white walls like stacked rings that a child might play with. The pinnacle of the tower glowed in the crisp sunlight and somewhere near its top, a horn sounded. He had to admit, though the thing was clearly of human make, it was one of the most beautiful sights he had ever seen. The grace of the white tower, like a beacon of moonlight, was mesmerizing. Tiny black and white banners fluttered in the wind. The light danced off the helmets of soldiers on the walls. Yet it was a surreal vision-even Legolas' eyes would never allow him to see all the way to Gondor from Rohan. And, like a mirage, the image of the White City rippled.  
  
"Why do you look to the White City?" he asked her, tearing his eyes away from Minas Tirith.  
  
Eowyn did not reply. Her eyes remained trained on the tower, her ears focused on the rolling call of the horn.  
  
"Eowyn?" he asked again.  
  
She turned to him, but her eyes were empty-she could not see him. She was seeing through him. He swallowed. Suddenly she seemed frightening. Her gaze was hollow and chilling. Her deadness froze Legolas' heart, and he caught her wrists, trying to warm them.  
  
"Eowyn, listen to me."  
  
Suddenly her face transformed-a thousand years fell upon her. She collapsed in his arms, an old mortal woman, her hair a white mist. He stared in confusion and horror, unable to think. Her porcelain skin was spotted and wrinkled, her eyes filmy and bloodshot, her teeth sparse and yellow. Then she changed again-she seemed to wilt and decay. Flesh dropped from her bones, the skin fell off her face, her eyes melted in their sockets.  
  
Legolas gasped, livid with fear, and tried to get away, but the wraith of Eowyn held onto him with hands that bit like serpents. Her neck made a cracking sound as she twisted to turn toward him. Dust fell from her rotting lips as she opened her mouth and screamed.  
  
* * *  
  
Across the campground, Pippin let out a cry.  
  
Legolas bolted upright, gasping. His eyes dilated in the darkness. His arms hurt where the wraith of Eowyn had seized him. Cold sweat covered him. The reality of the night descended upon him-he saw the riders and their horses encamped around him, Gimli snorting awake by his side-yet all this was of little comfort. A cobweb-like fog had blotted out all stars. He stumbled to his feet and swung his head around to find the young Hobbit.  
  
"Fool of a Took!"  
  
He saw Gandalf, his white robe shimmering in the moonlight, kneeling before a small figure that was sobbing. Another small one stood near: it was Merry, concern wracking his young, pleasant features. Gandalf's voice was stern and he seemed to be making demands when Legolas came over and knelt beside him.  
  
In the wizard's hand was the palantir.  
  
In a moment Legolas understood the situation. The palantir was a thing corrupted by Saruman, and its power lingered though its master had been thrown down as best he could be. Looking at the stone in Gandalf's wizened hands, Legolas could sense the malice that must have been dwindling there a moment before. Legolas touched the wizard's arm and gestured at the orb. Quickly, the white wizard smothered it in the folds of his cloak and went on questioning Pippin.  
  
"And then, Pippin! What then?"  
  
"No," the Hobbit moaned, "No, I-I cannot say!"  
  
Legolas' heart knotted with sorrow. He laid a hand upon Pippin's heaving shoulders. The Hobbit looked up tearfully. Legolas looked for a moment into his eyes. There was fear, yes, but no sign of betrayal. Innocence remained intact-miraculously so. The Elf smiled lightly. Gandalf exchanged a quick look with Legolas and perceived what he had not in his hastiness.  
  
"Very well, Master Peregrin, but I will have no more of you looking at things that are not meant for your eyes. Do you understand?"  
  
A short nod and a sniffle was all Pippin could muster. It was enough. Gandalf gave a curt incline of the head and Merry fell forward onto his friend and embraced him. Legolas stood up, satisfied, but he felt the wizard's eyes and turned to him. "He cannot stay here."  
  
Legolas began to understand. "Mithrandir, does the Enemy now think that...that Pippin has the Ring?"  
  
There was movement to the left. Aragorn came to stand by Legolas' side. "Where will he go? We have not the time to conceal him in the wild with our allies. Even if we did, now all roads are dark with dangers."  
  
The Elf looked at the ground. "There is no safety to be had anywhere."  
  
"No," said Gandalf slowly, as an idea formed in his mind. "But he may be safest with me. I go to Minas Tirith to sound the alarm. We now know where Sauron will strike the hardest."  
  
Legolas looked up swiftly. "Minas Tirith? But if the city falls-"  
  
Aragorn inhaled sharply.  
  
The white wizard gave a little smile, his black eyes twinkling. "The White City will not fall." He turned, with a sweep of his pale robes, and made to ready Shadowfax for the ride of his lifetime.  
  
Legolas sighed, but cleared his mind and looked to Aragorn to learn his next plan of action. But the Ranger's face was suddenly strange; he seemed to have grown many years older in the past ten minutes.  
  
"This day and night have been evil," the Ranger said. "I would not have us tarry here any longer either."  
  
"Gimli and I will be ready to ride whenever you give the word," Legolas replied steadily, sensing the anxiety in Aragorn's voice. "The Rohirrim may need a little longer. But yes, we should continue. That is what I believe."  
  
Aragorn gave no reply, gazing down at Merry and Pippin. "Yes. We should."  
  
Legolas felt Aragorn's guilt and it kindled his own. But he also perceived something else in the Ranger's heart-something dark, something evil, like a premonition of death. They turned from one another and went to ready the horses. Yet as their steeds stood side by side Legolas saw that Aragorn had a new bundle attached to his saddle-its shape and size gave away that it held the palantir. Legolas felt a twinge of uneasiness, but he let it pass. They divided-Gandalf and Pippin rode south. The rest went with Théoden and Aragorn. A cry was sounded, the horsemen mustered, the Hobbits were cared for as best as warriors could, and the company continued on its way.  
  
* * *  
  
A skilled assassin will be able to sense his own pursuit. It is the essence of defense, vital for offense, and it was something that the Wood- Elves of Mirkwood instilled in their youths from the time they were born until their coming-of-age ceremony-and then it was practiced for all their lives. It was essential to their way of life, surrounded by Goblins and Spiders, and they were known for it. Only the perimeter guard in Lorien could match the Mirkwood Elves in this skill. It was because of these reasons that Legolas was amazed at himself for not have sensed the riders a few leagues behind their company until they were almost upon them. But sense them he did, before either Gandalf or Aragorn. He swung Arod around abruptly, skillfully avoiding the oncoming riders. Gimli let out an annoyed yelp.  
  
Legolas stood in the stir-ups and peered into the mist. He could sense the riders quite clearly now but could not yet see them. He dove into his deepest senses, seeking to perceive the minds of these incoming people. There was something familiar among them. He thought, for a moment, it was something positively Elven. Hope lit up his heart, but hope had proven fruitless far too often. He paused, staring harder, the wind whipping his hair across his face. Instinctively, his hand fell on the hilt of his one of his knives.  
  
The company had slowed with Legolas, and Aragorn and Eomer rode up to him.  
  
"What is it?" Eomer asked. He looked to one of the lesser horse- chiefs in irritation. "The scouts have reported nothing of pursuit." The next moment his mind leapt to unnatural things, and he felt a shudder approaching. "Is something coming?"  
  
Legolas continued to stare out. "Someone. We are being followed. I do not know by whom." He gazed back into the grayness of mist. "Whoever they are, they just outnumber us. Let us hope they are friends."  
  
A rider rode up from the rear of the column, breathlessly shouting, "My lord, there are horsemen behind us. As we crossed the fords I thought that I hears them. Now we are sure. They are overtaking us, riding hard."  
  
Eomer grimaced. Their horses stamped and snorted. The Rohirrim grabbed their spears and the column began to turn to face the approaching company. Gimli peered around Legolas' waist and took in a nervous intake of breath.  
  
"How soon will they overtake us?" Aragorn asked, looking where Legolas looked.  
  
"Give them five minutes."  
  
* * *  
  
Legolas had misjudged again, and he cursed himself for it and was glad his father or one of his elders had not been there to see. He had misjudged the time. It took the approaching company a mere three minutes. A large cavalry of riders emerged from the mist as though they themselves were beings of fog rather than flesh. They were swathed in gray, hoods hiding much of their faces. They rode proud gray and chestnut steeds, many with white stars on their foreheads-perhaps not as masterful as the horses of the Rohirrim, but graceful and hardy nonetheless. Their hardtack was very old, unburnished silver, but the straight marks of runes could still be seen gleaming off a bridle or a bit. Brooches shaped like rayed stars shone on the riders' shoulders.  
  
"Halt!" cried Eomer. "Halt! Who rides in Rohan?"  
  
The gray figures stood still. Even their horses stopped completely. There was a precision to these people that Legolas had not seen in mortal Men. He narrowed his eyes but could not search their faces, half-hidden under the hoods of their cloaks. Their hands rested on the shining hilts of their swords. Then one of them dismounted-a tall Man with broad shoulders visible under the fall of his dark-gray cloak. He came forward palm up in a gesture of peace.  
  
Aragorn, on his steed Hasufel, was beaming. This was a little surprise that Legolas had not expected. The Ranger rode forward, leapt off his horse and met the dismounted rider halfway, tangling him in a warm embrace.  
  
"Halbarad!"  
  
In an instant Legolas understood, and he remembered the Rangers of the North who had come to Laketown or the outer edges of Mirkwood, trading news, goods and stories. He smiled, and whispered to Gimli, "The Dunedain! This is indeed a joy unlooked for."  
  
"Indeed," Gimli replied. "I wonder how they came? I suppose Gandalf sent for them."  
  
"Nay, Galadriel. Remember her words to Aragorn-" but then Legolas' face blanched as he remembered the Elven Lady's words for him: a cryptic notion of death, something about the sea. He frowned and looked back at the Rangers. But Gimli caught his breath behind him and replied in an awed whisper, "Galadriel. How she reads the hearts of all who come before her!"  
  
Legolas continued to scan the line of Rangers. He was glad that Aragorn knew them-weight fled from his chest. The Riders of Rohan were also less tense. But Legolas felt something that had not been satisfied. He urged Arod forward with a whisper and walked him down the line of Dunedain. The Rangers nodded their heads at him and made elvish signs of greeting- many knew him from his face as one of the ancient line of Greenwood. One said something to the rider next to him in what sounded like Númenorean. The Man turned called downed the line and two riders emerged.  
  
Their hoods were thrown off to reveal their faces: pale-skinned, gray- eyed, raven-haired beauty, symmetrical and almost eerily alike. Indeed they seemed to be exact copies of one another. They were smiling when Legolas saw them, each smile identical in its crooked mischievousness. He smiled back as he realized with great joy that he knew these faces all too well.  
  
"Elladan! Elrohir!"  
  
Elrohir, the quiet one, laughed, "What on Middle-earth is a child of Mirkwood doing this far south?"  
  
"He is obviously up to no good," Elladan, the troublemaker, replied.  
  
The Sons of Elrond dismounted at the same time. Legolas handed Gimli Arod's reins, who received them precariously. The Elves met in a warm group embrace. Greetings between them were jovial as they had always been. Legolas and the Twins had always felt a sort of generational gap between themselves and the older, worldlier Elven lords and ladies of each of their fathers' courts; together, for better or for worse, they felt a strong sense of kinship and exclusivity. Miles of distance and many dangers between realms had separated them for years. Rangers, Rohirrim, Hobbits, and a Dwarf all gazed in analogous wonder at the quiet joy clear in their reunion.  
  
"Fallen among the Horse-Lords of the south, have we?" Elladan smirked.  
  
"So it would seem. And how long have you been amongst these grim- faced wanderers?" Legolas retorted.  
  
"I've lost count," Elrohir replied. "Long months we have been abroad- and it has been good company among others of Aragorn's kin."  
  
Elladan smiled and peered over Legolas' shoulder. "And where is our little brother? Estel!" His eyes lit up. "There."  
  
The three Elf-princes turned. Elladan met Aragorn halfway and enveloped him in a very tender, very smothering embrace, and then, much to Aragorn's horror, ruffled his hair as he had done so for nearly eighty- seven years. Legolas laughed, his heart filling with the happiness he was able to glimpse even now, on the brink of all their dooms-but he also saw Elrohir looking at him quite gravely out of the corner of his eye.  
  
"We bring word to you, Legolas, from your father."  
  
* * *  
  
The Goblins had begun their nightly raids of Mirkwood at the beginning of the last month. At first their attacks had been a mere irritation, a task easily left to the Royal Guard. Goblins lived in wide, wet caves in the Misty Mountains. They were not used to the fecund tangle of Mirkwood. Even the dim, green light below the Canopy was harsh on their subterranean eyes. But they persevered, and they persisted, and in time it was obvious that their numbers were not dwindling-they were growing. And as they mustered, like a wave gathering strength before it strikes the shore, they became used to the forest.  
  
In two weeks the Goblins had driven the Guard back to the inner perimeter. There had been heavy losses on the enemy's side, yes, but at least twenty Elves had fallen, too. The Sons of Elrond did not have their names.  
  
"Your father is well," Elladan said. "He has taken no injury in the fighting."  
  
"He has gone out against the enemy?" Legolas could not believe his ears. It was the War Marshal, Atavodain, who led the Guard in all its maneuvers. Thranduil had not donned helm or scabbard since the Battle of Five Armies. Had it come to that? Suddenly Legolas felt overwhelmed with emotions-he could not tell whether he was afraid for his father or extraordinarily proud of him.  
  
"He has," said Elrohir. "Three times now he has led your people against the Goblins. The third time they were driven out to the feet of the mountains. This, even with rear attacks from the Spiders."  
  
"The Spiders are coming together?"  
  
Even Elladan's face was very severe. "Yes. And their number, too, is growing."  
  
Legolas stared at nothing. His heart was beating quickly in his chest as though his body were running for miles and miles without him. He felt conflicting tugs at his mind. Should he not be there with his father, rallying his people? What did they think of him now, far away fighting someone else's battles? Suddenly his head hurt. He put his hand to his brow and let out a long shuddering sigh. "I should be there," he said softly, to no one in particular.  
  
The Twins looked at him thoughtfully. "We know how you feel, Legolas," said Elladan. "Our home is also under assault." Legolas looked up, disbelieving. "It's true. Our father and his Elf-lords are doing all they can to keep the Ford from similar evils. But time is running out."  
  
"Numbers or strength of arms cannot defeat our enemies abroad," Elrohir added.  
  
"Nor can they make much difference here," said Legolas darkly.  
  
"But here is the only place where any hope of victory can be found," Elladan said, his voice resolute and firm. "We have put our trust in Men. So have you-else you would not be here."  
  
Legolas had to admit this was true. "But," he said, "time is running out."  
  
"Legolas, we did not tell you this news to turn your thoughts from your path, nor to put doubt in your heart," Elrohir said. "We think you have chosen wisely. So does our father. So does yours."  
  
Legolas looked up. "He-knows?"  
  
"Yes. And he has not spoken against your decision. The messenger from Mirkwood said 'King Thranduil commends the actions of son and extends gratitude to Lord Elrond of Imladris in his decision.'" Elladan grinned. "That part I was sure to memorize to the word."  
  
The weight on his chest lightened, but Legolas still felt something amiss-the tugging had not stopped. He looked into the Twins' eyes and perceived that something had been left unsaid.  
  
"What is it?"  
  
Elladan looked at his twin and sighed. "We do not wish to trouble you further, son of Thranduil, but you deserve to know." He could not bring his eyes to meet Legolas' when he then said, "Something is stirring in Dol Guldur."  
  
* * *  
  
Gimli thought at first that he ought to keep his distance from the Elf. After talking with those twin brothers who had come with the Dunedain, Legolas had looked positively haggard-and that was not a word Gimli was accustomed to applying to his friend. *Moody Elves,* he thought lightheartedly. *I wonder what is troubling him this time.*  
  
But there was no real mirth in the Dwarf's heart. He had noticed several changes in Legolas' character throughout the quest. Most had been, as far as Gimli was concerned, for the better. Legolas was certainly the quiet type, but he had never known Elves to speak without need. Still, this Elf's silences had become more unnerving than customary of his kind. It was true that he had seemed more like himself since they had been to Lorien. Gimli smiled as he thought of Galadriel; instinctively his hand felt at the little pouch hung round his neck, wherein were three strands of golden hair always kept near his heart until he could immortalize them in everlasting crystal, as he had promised. Yes, Galadriel was full of promise, and only she had truly brought hope into their hearts. But then they came to Rohan, and then again Legolas had changed. Gimli would never say Legolas had become flighty, but he would say he had become distracted. Gimli could not name the cause.  
  
Aragorn had had his own share of changes. The brethren Elladan and Elrohir had brought him a message in secret that even Legolas did not know. Gimli felt, with hurt pride, that he was being left out of a good deal. Legolas' bantering remarks had ceased for the most part. Often Gimli felt as though the Elf did not even notice he was there. And Aragorn now seemed to only have time for his kinsmen.  
  
Gimli grunted discontentedly, and Legolas turned in the saddle a little to look at him. "What is it?"  
  
"Nothing, nothing," the Dwarf lied through his teeth.  
  
Legolas' face was unreadable. He turned away again.  
  
"It is only," said Gimli, "that seeing so many of Aragorn's kindred come to join our journey, I now wish the Lady had sent for some of my own."  
  
"I do not think any would have come." The Elf's voice was cold. "They have no ride to war; war already marches on their own lands."  
  
Gimli did not speak again for the rest of the long ride back to the Hornburg.  
  
* * *  
  
They came upon Helm's Deep. Gimli took joy in pointing out to Merry the details of the battle, boasting proudly that he had defeated Legolas in the final count. The young Hobbit smiled, but Legolas could see his thought were clearly with Pippin, now far away.  
  
Aragorn, Elrohir, Elladan and Halbarad went off together and did not come down from their chamber in the Burg to eat with the rest of the company. The other Rangers sat a bit apart, silent and grave, as much of the Rohirrim made ready to ride to Meduseld with Théoden. Just as the old king had mounted Snowmane, Aragorn emerged with his companions. His face had aged again, but his eyes were haggard and nearly dead. Legolas stood up swiftly and went to his side.  
  
"You are troubled," he said, falling in to walk beside his friend.  
  
"Long have I had counsel with my kin, and now my path is clear-but the way is the darkest and most toilsome of all." A shadow clung to him. Legolas turned his head-Elrohir was looking at him. In the Elf's eyes Legolas read something quite clearly: Aragorn had looked into the palantir.  
  
Legolas was silent. They came to Théoden's side and Aragorn spoke for a little. His voice was like a storyteller's, full of time and premonition. Théoden nodded at his words, but then a grim silence fell as Aragorn said, "I will ride by the swiftest way, and I will take the Paths of the Dead."  
  
Legolas knew the name. He started and looked at Elladan and Elrohir, but they were looking straight ahead at Aragorn, and their faces were sure.  
  
* * *  
  
"The Paths of the Dead?" Gimli shook his head. "I do not know them. Yet it is a name of ill omen, Aragorn. The Rohirrim took no liking to it, I saw."  
  
Legolas nodded. "I do not fear the dead." As he made this statement, Legolas wondered if it was true. Of his next statement, Legolas' felt no doubt whatsoever. "I will go with you, Aragorn."  
  
Aragorn smiled for the first time since either Legolas or Gimli could remember.  
  
Then Legolas looked to Gimli, expecting the same resounding response. But the Dwarf did not seem so certain. He gazed down at the food in front of him, his face deathly serious. Suddenly Gimli seemed very small-even weak. Legolas' heart stung at the sight.  
  
"It is a name of ill-omen," Gimli breathed. "But I too shall follow you Aragorn, even to an end."  
  
The smile died on Aragorn's face. But his voice was strong. "The heir of Elendil will never forget your kindnesses."  
  
"Whence do we ride?" asked Legolas.  
  
"We shall come to the Stone of Erech by way of Edoras. There will be one night's rest in Théoden's hall. It is kept yet by the Lady Eowyn."  
  
Legolas nodded and looked down-he would not let Aragorn or Gimli see the color drain from his face.  
  
* * *  
  
Eowyn rose and followed the boy out of the stables, stepping into the afternoon sunlight just as ten men opened the great wooden gate and a small company rode into the courtyard of Edoras. Their raiment was gray and their horses swift-she wondered, at first, if this was some small host of Elves that had drifted into the southlands. But then she looked to the front of the column and saw that three among them had their hoods thrown off- Aragorn, Gimli, and Legolas.  
  
Her breath caught with wonder and she broke into a smile.  
  
The horses settled and their riders dismounted. She walked swiftly to the foot of the stairs that led to the Hall and opened her arms, bowing her head.  
  
"Welcome, Aragorn son of Arathorn. In health may you be housed again in the halls of Théoden, lord of Rohan." She raised her head, her face stern and fair. Aragorn came forward and bowed deeply. Just behind him, Legolas and Gimli did the same. Then they and the others in the Gray Company followed her into the Hall. She felt Legolas' eyes upon her back as they walked inside.  
  
* * *  
  
Bedding had to be found, and supper had to be made-the servants worked swiftly, doing their best to accommodate so many at such short notice. Eowyn was very busy as well, dispensing orders and helping where she could. Yet as she crossed from the kitchens to the shield-hall she stopped and saw Legolas looking at her. He was leaning up against one of the carven columns, his arms folded. He was gently smiling.  
  
Eowyn caught one of the serving boys by the arm and told him to be sure a flask of spring water had been put in each of the Rangers' rooms, and then returned the Elf's smile. They came forward and met in the middle of the hall.  
  
"My Lady," he said, every bit a prince. He put his hand to his heart and inclined his body in the Elvish manner.  
  
"My Lord," she replied, nodding in turn.  
  
He looked up, his eyes tracing over her face. He seemed lost in thought, but then he said, "Just as we left you days ago."  
  
She smiled, sharing their secret. "I should hope, my lord." Then she took his arm and led him out to the back balcony that overlooked the valley and the white-tipped mountains. "Now tell me everything that has happened."  
  
Legolas laughed but did as he was told. He described everything in as colorful detail as he could-their wonder at discovering both Merry and Pippin alive and well, the strange, ancient magic to be found in the Ents, the last malice of Saruman. But he did not say what Saruman had said to him. Eowyn asked questions throughout his story, and for the most part she seemed satisfied with his account. The sun had set by the time he reached the end. Yet when he was done, she looked at him sternly.  
  
"Legolas," Eowyn said, "Is that all?"  
  
He paused and turned his eyes upon her. "What do you mean, my lady?"  
  
Her eyes were slightly narrowed, scanning his like a seer gazing into the future. "You...are not...*hiding* anything from me?"  
  
He laughed a little. "Me? Hide something from you?" He let his hand lift to touch a lock of her hair that had fallen over her shoulder. He had done it unconsciously-a moment later he realized that they were outside overlooking much of the city and his hand fell.  
  
She didn't smile. "Not hiding then. You are protecting me from something."  
  
His gentle flirtation had somehow turned to poison. He stiffened, all mirth disappearing from his voice and his face. "You are imagining things. Good evening, my lady." He did not even have the time to take a step before her hand shot out and caught his forearm, purpose glinting in her gaze.  
  
"I hate to be protected. You should know that by now."  
  
"There are some things that I would not wish upon anyone," he said. His voice was strangely soft, almost a whisper. "And I do not wish to share my experience at Isengard with you, Lady Eowyn. Please be content with what I have told you. I have not the strength to revisit that time again."  
  
She gazed at his face for a long time, her eyes gleaming and her expression unreadable. At last she looked down and said, "Very well, Master Elf. I will let you be." But then she reached out and took his hand in two of her own and whispered, "If you need to speak on it, for I see that you are greatly troubled, know that I am here to listen." After a moment she released his hand, her face filled with enlightenment and sorrow. "Who were they?"  
  
Legolas started. He had revealed nothing to her. He was certain Aragorn had not breathed a word on the matter. In the company of another Elf then, yes, it would have been fairly obvious why he was suffering. But mortals could not perceive the minds of others. Why had she?  
  
Eowyn wondered if she had perhaps committed a misstep. She saw the shock in Legolas' eyes, and realized she may have spoken in folly or out of turn. "You need not tell me anything. If that is what you wish."  
  
"Many of my people suffered because of me," he said. "I had nearly put it behind me. But something...came up."  
  
Eowyn nodded and interlaced his fingers with her own, and gently lead him to a seat beneath a window. They turned to face each other, the night air gently breathing upon their faces. For a moment Eowyn seemed so ethereally beautiful that Legolas could not speak. But he found his voice, for she was one who would listen, and he told her about June the twentieth. It was like a river that had long been dammed up against its natural course- suddenly words were pouring forth. He spoke more openly to her than he had to anyone, even to Galadriel. And she listened! Eowyn's face was acute as she took in all he said. She comprehended his pain and his guilt. She knew his sorrow. And then he told her what the Sons of Elrond had said, and at last she spoke.  
  
"I did not know that the Elves were under siege."  
  
He stopped, a bit thrown by her tone of voice.  
  
She looked at him as though for the first time, her eyes shining. "I did not know...that your people still cared for the fate of this world." She paused. "I do not mean such in offense. Forgive me if my words seem ignorant. But I am amazed, Legolas, at your people's valor and resilience." She smiled. "I would like to meet your father one day. I will tell him of all you have done for Rohan."  
  
Her face was so genuine in its pride, so pure in its devotion that Legolas forgot that they were in full view of the court and took her hands in his. "And my people shall marvel at the strength of Men."  
  
A chime sounded and the magic of the moment withered. "Oh, I am a fool," Eowyn laughed. "Here I am met with a host of Men who are tired and hungry, and I have time only for you. Come inside, that is the supper bell. After all, I must hear news of this battle I never saw."  
  
* * *  
  
The banquet was laden with food; the people of Rohan set aside not an ounce of generosity in serving their guests. Wine was brought forth from the cellars. Fresh breads and cheeses were passed. Three deer had been caught that very day-they were carved and spiced and served in large helpings to each of the weary warriors.  
  
Eowyn sat at the head of the table. On her left were Aragorn and Halbarad, on her right Legolas and Gimli. The Three Hunters relayed to her an exciting account of the Battle of Helm's Deep. Gimli reminded Legolas, with a dig of his elbow, how he had beaten one of the Eldar by one orc. Legolas laughed. Even Aragorn's faded expression lightened, and praised Théoden in his final charge and spoke of the strength of the sword of Eomer.  
  
The Rangers spoke in their own tongue, keeping to themselves again, but even they seemed less grim to be thus welcomed in Rohan, and to be housed by one so fair as Eowyn. One of them rose-he was younger than the others, his hair a deep brown, his face carved as if in marble. From under the folds of his dark-gray cloak he brought out a silver lyre and offered the hall a song.  
  
"Please," said Eowyn, and a hush resounded as the wine was passed. The young Ranger briefly tuned his instrument, then cleared his voice and began in a strange language. Another ranger accompanied him on a low haunting flute. Then the Dunadan's voice rose, clear and lyrical, Elven-fair, and he began to sing in Westron:  
  
Riders of the Northern Lands  
A people lost with countless lays  
Have come upon the Southern Strands  
The heralds of the End of Days  
  
Our city sank beneath the tide  
The Sea has swallowed countless hosts  
But some escaped and some survived  
And came in ships to Western coasts  
  
Our cities in the mountains carved  
Our ships in rivers sailed  
And no Child of the West starved  
And no blossom in winter failed  
  
Eowyn noticed that she had turned her head during this song to stare unashamedly upon the figure of Legolas a few feet away. He had his head tilted to one side, his eyes half-lidded, relaxed and seemingly lost in the song. She gazed at his slightly parted lips and felt a strange in the center of her body. It was something akin to devotion and sorrow-it must have been just that. It was unmistakably love. Like a child who has glimpsed some work of art he cannot yet fully understand, Eowyn looked away. But the pleasant hold on her heart did not lessen. She stood silently on the brink. Ages seemed to pass as the song went on. Yet she did not look back at him until it had ended.  
  
We who turn gold into water  
We who count stars in the morn  
We know a sword may be resoldered  
And so can a line be reborn  
  
And as the Elves seek out their harbors  
And leave the world awash in gray  
We, once forgotten by ardor  
Shall in the dim light yet remain  
  
For as we once left our sea home  
They shall there depart and there stay  
As gray ships ride out on the seafoam  
The Men of the West fade away  
  
Legolas seemed to rise from his trance when the song was done, roused by the boisterous cheers of the flaxen-haired soldiers of Rohan and the cool praises of the dark, misty Rangers. It looked as though he had awakened from a pleasant dream, refreshed and more alive than she could remember ever seeing him. Unconsciously, Eowyn felt herself break into a smile. As though it were an instinct, he turned and startled her by staring back with equal intensity. Immediately Eowyn felt as though her midriff was melting. He was so beautiful. His gray eyes, piercing and full of intuition, were stirring up storms in distant lands. She saw a great and striking sadness. And he was so haunting, a thing of the forest, inhuman, dangerous, ancient and new. Young to his people, they said, to his people of countless ages, some old as the mountains, some older still. And yet he, too, was fathomless in age. He was like a great monument-a thing of the past, of lost ages, whose equal has never been made.  
  
And then with a light smile like a flame in a dark tunnel, he looked away.  
  
With the end of the song, the talk turned to the road ahead. And just as the song had ended on a dark note, so did the discussion turn. The previous mirth disappeared. Eowyn turned to Aragorn and said, "My Lord, you are weary and shall now go to your beds with such ease as can be contrived in haste. But tomorrow fairer housing shall be found for you and your companions."  
  
"Nay, lady. We stay here tonight, and will break our fast in your hall tomorrow, but that will be enough." He did not look at her as went on. "I ride on an errand most urgent, and shall depart at the first light of dawn."  
  
She turned a questioning eye on Legolas, but the Elf would not look at her either. He sought distraction, found it in his wine glass and took a sip. Eowyn turned back to Aragorn, confused. "It is kind then, to ride many miles to Eowyn to tell her of tidings of valor, though she must stay in the hall in exile."  
  
Aragorn was a natural orator, yet even he was having difficulty skirting the issue at hand. "No man would count such a journey wasted, and yet, my lady, I would not have come here if it were not the road which I must take to lead me to Dunharrow."  
  
A thought pricked the back of Eowyn's mind, but she smothered it swiftly and hoped her voice did not reveal her aggravation. "Then you are astray. Out of Harrowdale no road runs east or south. You must return as you came."  
  
Legolas finished his wine, put the glass down, and looked at Aragorn through lowered brows. There was no avoiding it now.  
  
"We are not astray. There is a road out of this valley that I shall take tomorrow. I shall ride by the Paths of the Dead."  
  
The hall went silent but for the crash as one of the serving girls dropped a pitcher of water she had been carrying. Eowyn's eyes went wide, stricken with horror and utter disorientation. One Ranger pushed back his chair and rose to seek out his bed. Soon enough the rest had followed. The hall cleared until the only people left were Eowyn, Aragorn and Legolas. Gimli cast a searching eye on his Elven companion before deciding it best to get some sleep, too. The three remaining sat in silence.  
  
Then Eowyn turned a sharp on Aragorn and demanded, "Is it your errand to seek death? The Dead do not suffer any to pass that way."  
  
"They will suffer me." He said in a voice that Legolas did not recognize. "No other road will serve."  
  
"This is madness." Her hands were gripping the table. "These are your kinsmen-I can see that they are Men of renown and prowess. We need these Men in the war! You cannot lead them into shadows."  
  
"This is not madness," Aragorn said steadily. "This is a path appointed. Those who ride with me do so of free will." Here he looked up at Legolas with a significant glance. "I will ride it alone if need be."  
  
"Don't be ridiculous," Legolas said.  
  
A silence fell, one in which Eowyn looked back and forth between Man and Elf, utterly aghast at their resolution to die. They did not seem to see her. Aragorn gave Legolas a weary look and said, "Esto le."  
  
The Elf looked at him squarely. Aragorn nodded a little.  
  
"I must talk with Lady Eowyn alone, Legolas," the Man said.  
  
Legolas blanched and looked away from Aragorn. In his mind new fears kindled-would he be able to get Eowyn alone again before they left at dawn? He would find a way. He said, "My Lady," and disappeared into the night.  
  
* * *  
  
When Aragorn came back into the little room, he glanced down at the two occupied cots. Gimli slept deeply, grunted a bit in his slumber. Legolas lay on his back, his slender hands folded on his breast which softly rose and fell. His eyes were half-lidded, his face relaxed, his mouth slightly open.  
  
Aragorn sighed and sat upon his own cot, then put his head in his hands. For a moment he sat like this-then he pulled off his riding boots and lay down on the mattress. For a long moment he lay there. His eyes stayed open in the dim light. Then exhaustion took him. He shut his eyes and after a moment his breath became steady.  
  
Legolas blinked and rose up on his elbows. He looked at Aragorn's face for half a moment and, perceiving rest, silently got out of bed. He slipped his shoes on, ran a hand through his hair and went out of the room into the candlelit hall. He did not see or hear Aragorn shift upon his cot.  
  
* * *  
  
Eowyn was sitting alone on one of the three small steps that led up to Théoden's throne. Her hands were on her knees and she was staring ahead to a pool of moonlight on the middle of the floor. Legolas came in silently and stood in the shadows between two columns for a long time, before finally stepping forward.  
  
"I have spoken with Aragorn," she said. She would not look at him.  
  
"I know." He came to stand by her side, then sat down next to her on the same step. He felt a breeze and looked down the length of the hall-the door was open, letting in the cool air. His mind leapt back to the nightmare he had had of a similar view, but Eowyn's warm breath and heartbeat calmed his nerves. Together they gazed out into the valley. Stars were just visible over the high mountains.  
  
"He said he would venture the Paths of the Dead alone if necessary."  
  
Legolas did not reply. He continued to look out into the night as though she were not there. Her hands twitched in irritation.  
  
"He said you and Gimli agreed to join him."  
  
"Yes," was all he said.  
  
"Why?"  
  
A bit surprised, he turned his eyes upon her. "Wouldn't you?"  
  
"Of course!" she responded almost shrilly. She remembered the night and the Men asleep, and went on more quietly. "He is your companion, but he is my king and my captain. I would follow him anywhere. But I would not go walking willingly into Death like a fool."  
  
Legolas sighed and his smoky breath fled through the open hall into the cold night. "Then we are fools. But we will go." He looked at her again. "What does it matter?"  
  
"What does it *matter*?" she said darkly. "You too would go then, and throw your life away?" Her eyes were wild with fury. "And leave me here?"  
  
"It is my path," he replied sternly. "I will go where it leads me."  
  
"Spare me your philosophy," Eowyn shot back. "You will go on this road and you will not return."  
  
"I do not fear the Dead," he countered sternly.  
  
"Perhaps you should."  
  
Legolas felt himself becoming angry. "You would do well to learn something of loyalty and friendship, Eowyn. It is something that goes beyond honor and duty. It is a thing of the heart, an organ that you do not seem to know very well."  
  
His insults bit her as none had before. She felt his judgment and took it quite seriously. But she still had her pride and twisted the pain into a plea. "Perhaps you are more versed in this matter than I am. Very well. You are his friend. Counsel him! Give him the wisdom he is lacking now."  
  
Legolas' face was stony. "He has all he needs."  
  
She inhaled, all reason lost to her. "Then you condemn yourselves to death."  
  
"This is the only way. Aragorn has never led us astray before. Why, now, when our faith in him is most vital, would I abandon him?"  
  
"Yet you cannot say that you think this path the wisest?"  
  
"Actually," he said, "I do." She began to say something, but he talked over her. "There are legends that I know and that Aragorn knows, words that were lost in memory though not in potency. There is great power in the Line of the Kings. I know it for I have seen it. I have faith in Men."  
  
Eowyn sighed and looked at her lap. Her voice was very small when she said, "I wish that I shared the same faith."  
  
Legolas reached out his left arm and drew Eowyn against his side. She was cold. Her head fell gently onto his collar and they sat like so, fitted together, for a long time. A breeze drifted in again and gently nudged Eowyn's skirts. She shivered. Legolas put his other arm around her. He let his hand stray into her hair. With shining eyes she looked up at him, even paler in the moonlight, tears bright but unfallen.  
  
Legolas brought his hand to her cheek and in a moment he felt as though she had cast a spell on him. In a daze he felt utter happiness alone in the cold room with her. His thumb moved slowly down her face and traced, ever so lightly, the contours of her lips.  
  
Then she moved away, shaking his arms from her shoulders and stood up. The wind had picked up and it tossed her golden hair. Her face was firm- her tears were gone. She was like a statue of a shield-maiden, hard and pure. Legolas stood as well and very slowly reached up and rested his hand on the back of her neck. It was very warm. Her hair smelled like fresh clover. Her skin was smooth.  
  
She was stiff, her arms crossed, her face firmly set, but he did not let it stop him. He stood behind her, a head taller than she was, and draped his arms across her body. Then it was as though she truly was a thing of ice-she melted back into him, turned her face toward him as he turned to her, and she let him kiss her.  
  
Legolas heard the sharp intake of breath too late. He shoved himself back from Eowyn and knew, from the sound, that Aragorn was gaping at them in absolute horror. They stood, the three of them, perfectly still. And though the Man's gasp had been directed at the act, but his eyes bore only into the Elf.  
  
Legolas felt like a tower under siege-suddenly he was surrounded on all sides by faceless foes. He knew that this, his deepest, darkest secret, was laid bare before the last person he would ever tell. For a moment it was as though Eowyn were not there at all-it was simply he and Aragorn at the edge of the world, and both felt somehow deeply betrayed by each other.  
  
Eowyn was silent and still, staring at nothing, her eyes wide and frigid. Like a tableau the three of them stood rooted-then Aragorn stepped forward, his form clearer in the moonlight. She was not looking at him, but she could feel his fear. Without a word or a gesture, she gathered her skirts into her hand and walked as swiftly as she could out of the hall, away somewhere, anywhere, where she might be able to forget and be alone again.  
  
* * *  
  
Man and Elf stood like mortal enemies facing each other off before a duel to the death. Aragorn realized that his fists were clenched-he released them. Legolas realized he had not yet made eye contact with his friend-he did so. They stood staring at one another, trying to search out some sort of meaning in their faces. Aragorn's face was deeply confused and even hurt- but Legolas' face was blank and impassive. It made the Man even angrier. He shook his head from side to side, noiselessly disbelieving. Then at last the anger overflowed.  
  
"She-is-mortal," Aragorn spat.  
  
The blankness melted like snow in summer. Legolas suddenly became livid, his teeth on edge, his eyes wild as a rampaging Warg's. Power emanated from him. The haunting, ancient light that sometimes flickered in his eyes was now a wildfire. Aragorn nearly stepped back. "Yes, Aragorn! She *is* mortal! She is mortal-and so are you!"  
  
And then an image floated by Aragorn's eyes, a little, colorful tableau, the painting of a moving memory. He saw a skinny dark-haired boy, fair, strong but suddenly shy, gazing between the boles of smooth birch trees, gazing into the eyes of a woman with hair as black as a river at night, and a word escaped, "Tinúviel."  
  
He had not meant to say it aloud.  
  
"No, Aragorn." Ah, yes. Back to reality, back to Legolas who stood tall and taught as a strung bow, an invisible venom-tipped arrow aimed at the Man's throat. His voice was stern, more like King Thranduil's than his own. "Arwen is not Luthien. And you are not Beren."  
  
Yet Aragorn was a proud, wise mortal Man. He shot back, "And you? What shall I call you? Nothing! Such have no names in the history of our world!"  
  
"Then we are the first. We have not yet been tested. We are not lost in the silly dreams of Mortals or even Elvenkind. You are not Beren, Aragorn, in any sense of the name, save for that worthless ring you wear, save for the fact that you shall die."  
  
These were harsh, ugly words-words that a well-bred Elf would be truly pressed to say. Suddenly, Legolas didn't seem very Elf-like at all. Aragorn stood staring, thrown by the hideous cruelty of his companion's words, but also astounded by the realness of the pain and suffering he saw in Legolas' face. A battle was raging behind those gray eyes. There was a trapped soul crying for release. Mortality and immortality were at war in more sense than one. Then Aragorn was overwhelmed with pity, and he spoke once more, softly and sorrowful.  
  
"And so shall Eowyn. So shall Eowyn."  
  
Legolas' face froze, his eyes like lances. But then all the aggression and savagery died with one gentle exhalation of breath. Both he and Aragorn knew that he had been defeated.  
  
"Do not do this, my friend," the Man said softly, and he realized that all he felt now was genuine pity.  
  
Legolas looked away, aghast and feeling once more completely alone. "I know what is at stake."  
  
"Do you?" Aragorn stepped forward and reached out a hand, resting it on Legolas' shoulder. The Elf almost flinched at the touch. "Do you know what lies ahead?"  
  
Legolas did not answer.  
  
Aragorn was silent, too, seeking the right words. "You will take no wound like this one. You will feel no agony as this." He stopped. His voice had caught-there were tears in his eyes. "You must listen-"  
  
But Legolas shrugged off Aragorn's hand and spun on his heel. Without looking back he disappeared into the darkness, in the direction of their room. Aragorn stood alone for a moment. He looked at Théoden's throne, but only saw an empty chair. He looked out through the doors at the city and the sky, but saw only a ghost town under dwindling stars. Then he followed Legolas-he went to their room, he did not look for his Elven companion-for all he knew Legolas could have run out into the night, never to be seen again. He simply lay upon the bed and collapsed into a deep, numbing sleep.  
  
* * *  
  
Legolas lay perfectly still, his hands folded on his breast, staring up at the ceiling. He swallowed. He felt as though the roof and walls of their tiny chamber were closing in all around him. He felt lost and naked in the dark. His own heartbeat was hollow; the night air was dead. Tears were entreating his eyes but he had not the strength to let them fall.  
  
And everywhere, all across Middle-earth, darkness was stirring.  
  
-Fin-  
  
GO REVIEW NOW, DAMN YE!  
  
Continued in Chapter XIX - Among the Dead (Oh what a double meaning lies in that chapter title. Symbolism! Symbolism! I love it. The Paths of Dead lie ahead!)  
  
Remember there is a preview of Chapter XIX up at The Leaf Storm Fanlisting! 


	19. Chapter XIX Among the Dead

AUTHOR NOTES: I'm sorry it has been such slow going with this story. Believe me, I know how incredibly frustrating it can be when an author doesn't update. None of the stories on my favorites list have been updated since 2003! Things may speed up now that I really know where this is going. Thanks for all the encouragement, and I hope this next installment pleases you! This version is rather ugly, and I can't italicize or use good punctuation. There's a much better, easier to read version at the fanlisting (the link is in my author profile).

I've been listening to "The Last Samurai" soundtrack while I've been writing this, for anyone who cares or misses the scoring I use to incorporate way back when. This version is rather ugly, and I can't italicize or use good punctuation. There's a much better, easier to read version at the fanlisting (the link is in my author profile). As always, I have responded to each and every review of the previous chapter in the order they appear on the reviews page.

REVIEW RESPONSES FOR CHAPTER 18:

Star4 – Yeah, I love the two of them. They're so cool, so independent, and a blast to write.

kookey – Come back to life! It's updated! Oh yeah, here's your pitchfork.

ShopGirl1 – I love the character of Gollum, and I loved writing him.

Laniana – Yet another who read it all at once. Well done! I wish I could give you a cookie.

ALW - Hmmm...yet another reader who felt jarred by the fight between Aragorn and Legolas. Maybe this chapter will smooth that out. If not, please give me specific advice and I'll do some edits on Chapter 18. Thanks, though!

Loselen Snowstar – Well, darling, if you've got a problem with the pairing, I can't help but wonder why you read it! But I tend to dislike certain other pairings, and curiosity certainly has gotten the better of me. Believe me, I know Legolas and Éowyn aren't a couple, that she crushes on Aragorn, and that she marries Faramir. I've read these books 3 times. My story is a "what if" sort of pairing. And no, in the books there is no dialogue between Legolas and Éowyn. And they barely seem to notice each other in the movies. In the end, you are entitled to your opinion. I wish I could have changed your mind, but oh well. Thanks for giving it a read anyway, and yes, I'll continue for any who asks.

sum41grl - First of all, yay for Sum 41. Second of all, shame on you for reading fanfic before the books! Tsk tsk. Third of all, forget the second of all and THANKS mate! Particularly, thanks for this acknowledgement: "i absolutely love how you made him seem elf like, instead of a human with immortality as i have seen some stories go." This was a big problem I had with most (_ most_, not all) fics about Legolas. Elves can seem distant and even unfeeling in the books and the movies, but when writing them one always must keep in mind that Elves experience the most sorrow and the most happiness. It's a truly bipolar existence, and it's terribly fun to write. Thanks! But don't be hating on Faramir. Actually, scratch that. Hate on Movie Faramir. Love to Book Faramir. I had a bit of a crush on the Book Faramir. And I don't know. Are Legolas and Éowyn meant for each other??? Who knows....oooooh....

Jenn - Another missy who liked that "she is mortal" bit. Woot woot! But man...Tolkien would be proud? THANK YOU! I don't know if I completely agree, if only out of humility, but THANK YOUUUUUUU!!!!!!!!!!!!! Squeal! I shall continue as you bid.

BurningTyger - Yay for collegiate funk masters such as we! I'm glad you liked that line. I was worried when I wrote it. It's a highly cinematic moment, but I think of my stories like movies and in the mind-movie of "Leaf Storm" it worked alright. Thanks.

Star-of-Chaos - Muchos gracias.

Kelsey - Thanks for the compliments, love. As for Legolas and Aragorn's tiff, remember: often we criticize others for the thing we most deplore in ourselves.

Morze - All in ONE sitting? Hell's bells, I wrote the thing and even _I_ have to pause and get a cup of water or something before my eyes fall out of my head. But thank, thank, thank you for the review and I hope this next chapter pleases you, too.

Wolfgirl2 - I hope this was soon enough for you! Sorry for the wicked delays!

Raisse of Gondor - The tension between Aragorn and Legolas was very difficult for me to write because I love both of these characters. I had to make sure neither of them came across as a complete bad guy. After all, they each have their motives and both are for the best. I'm not sure if I succeeded completely as Aragorn's actions were very jarring for most reviewers. As for being amended? You can't be friends with someone for a full human lifetime and just drop them due to bad behavior, now can you?

Gifted Empress - Unlike any L/E stories, huh? Hmmm. You know, you made me realize that I really haven't actually read many of the other L/E stories here. God that's arrogant. I'm going to get on that right away! Thanks for the encouragement, and yes, I'll work as quickly as I can. Hope it's quick enough.

April - Thanks, doll. I hope you like the next ones, too.

Jess Angel - Drama Druid is a sweetheart for recommending me to you. There's nothing quite as exhilarating as one writer supporting another. Thanks for the compliment on the pacing. Pacing is one of the hardest things to accomplish in writing. I'mnot fully satisfied with my pacing yet. My language use is all based on the prose of Tolkien, but a lot of the inspiration for my writing style comes from my second-favorite author, Mary Renault, whose work I cannot recommend enough (you should check out her trilogy on Alexander the Great, "Fire from Heaven", "The Persian Boy" and "Funeral Games," especially if you want to be in the know before the Colin Farrell movie comes out!). Mostly I want to commend you on recognizing this story as a character sketch. To me, the most interesting part of any story (book, play, film, etc.) is the characters, not the plot. I have Tolkien's personages as my outline—I just play with them and put them in fun situations! Writing IS forever!

Ainaweth - I honestly can't say at this point whether or not Gimli will learn about Éowyn. I hope so. We'll see how the story progresses. Thanks for the appreciation of my wanting to give my best writing, and I PROMISE there will never be a wait like that ever, ever again! Plugs make the world go round!

Kitten - That's my job, Kitty, that's my job.

Aenigmatic - Nine months and no babies! As far as regular updating is concerned, I will do my best. My goal was one new chapter a month at the slowest. But my schoolwork has to come first. Damn college! Damn it to hell! Except on the weekends, then YAY COLLEGE!

Frosta - How indeed will Faramir be handled? Will Legolas give Éowyn up? Will Faramir bite the dust? Will Éowyn? Will LEGOLAS? As if I'd tell, silly. There will be around four more chapters before we hit Faramir. But hit him we will, and firmly. Be prepared. Keep in mind that I'm trying to keep this story as close to the books as I can. I'm trying not too make it a traditional AU.

Erewyn - I'm glad that you liked the bit with Gimli. I was rereading some of the previous few chapters and I realized he was falling out of the story. Gimli is so important to Legolas. I just HAD to get him back in there. I plan to have him as a stronger presence in the future. As for Thranduil and Éowyn's meeting, don't lose hope yet. I'm not making any promises, but it isn't impossible. As for Aragorn, I hope no one thinks I'm some sort of raging Aragorn basher—quite the opposite. I Heart Strider! This new chapter should help to regain our esteem in him. Hopefully. Eh.

Nikki1 - I also was a bit miffed at the utter LACK (and I mean LACK) of L/E fics. I mean, what the hell? Leaf Storm is (and I know this for a fact if you look at its publishing date) the first L/E 'romance' on Woah. We're making history here, folks. HISTORY. Mwa ha ha...

Alright, let's get to it.

Chapter XIX - Among the Dead

That morning was more merciful than any before it had been. Dawn came creeping in through the single window of the tiny room like the last sigh of night. Its light was pale and cool, and the blue of night was a breath just beginning to fade into the gauzy pink of day. The breeze that had flowed down from the tips of the Misty Mountains, racing over the plains of Rohan, came now to ruffle the muslin curtain. It smelled of grass and rain. The light fluttered with it, dancing over Legolas' half-lidded eyes, rousing him from what little sleep he had scraped together after the dreadful night before. He had not forgotten what had happened, no—how could he? He blinked awake and looked around the room without moving his head. Dust motes seemed to glitter in the quiet light. Gimli was still asleep, but Aragorn was standing. His back was to Legolas, fitting his tooled leather belt around his waist, adjusting Andúril in its viney Lórien scabbard. Feeling the Elf's eyes, Aragorn turned to meet the tentative gaze.

For a long moment they looked at each other. The wind increased and whistled into the room, but neither felt the chill in the air. Memories seemed to circle around them. Once they had been like kinsmen, knotted by an intense friendship—it had been long ago, and distance and circumstance had kept them apart, but it was a bond that could not be bent nor broken. And though Aragorn could never be much more than mortal, Legolas was able to read his heart more acutely than he had read any Elf's.

It shamed him.

Legolas' gaze fell, but somehow he forced himself to look up again. When he did he marveled—for Aragorn's lips were curved with the faintest, gentlest of smiles. The Man came to his friend's bedside and sat on the edge, his hands dangling between his knees, gazing through the horse-stitched rug at his feet. The smile fell. Legolas propped himself up on his elbows. A piece of hair fell over his face but he did not dare move it.

"I was wrong to judge you," Aragorn said quietly.

Legolas found his voice in the dim light. "Forgive me."

But Aragorn looked at him and said, "It is not like that, Legolas. If only it were that simple." The sadness of many ages great and gone by was locked in his voice and, marvelously, in his stare. At that moment Legolas could see that Aragorn was anything but human. "In the end you will find that you must forgive yourself." His eyes drifted with his thoughts. Everywhere Legolas felt the presence of Arwen. Then Aragorn collected himself. He lifted his chin, every inch a king. "And you will hate yourself, too, before the end."

There was silence once more. Legolas opened his mouth to reply but found himself speechless. Aragorn gave him the sad smile again, then lifted the fallen lock of hair away from Legolas' brow. The Elf froze.

"Now the road ahead is not so certain." Aragorn's face was shadowy in the growing light; Legolas could not read his expression, yet even the rhythm of his heart was a mystery. "Is it?"

"It never was. Not for me." Legolas sat up and drew off the thin cover, rolling his broad, archer's shoulders like a rising cat. Then he sat still, looking off at nothing. "Often I wonder if I am even meant to be here. Or if I've gone astray." Legolas was tired of confessing and confiding, yet he felt he owed something to Aragorn and could think of nothing else to give. "I know it is often a burden to you, Aragorn, and that you do not count yourself lucky—far from it. But you must know that you are fortunate to have your path ordained for you." He stopped, very sad again. "To have a path at all."

Aragorn took this in and chose his next words carefully. "This journey has given many people destinies they would have otherwise never seen," said Aragorn. "Do you think Frodo knew what was to be his fate a year ago?"

"No. Of course not." Legolas shook his head. Aragorn had not understood. How could he? "I'm not making sense."

"Your path is your own, Legolas." Aragorn smiled. "That _is_ a gift. Be thankful for it."

"But," the Elf whispered, "You have seen my direction." He exhaled with empty eyes. He felt like he had been fasting for years and now the thought of sustenance sickened him. "And you do not approve of it."

Aragorn looked Legolas square in the eye—and though no words were spoken, he heard the Elf quite clearly: _The nightmares have returned._

Silence fell again as the light grew. Gimli began to stir in his bed, though his Dwarvish dreams kept him in slumber a moment more. He snorted lightly and smacked his lips, blinking in the light. Aragorn rose from Legolas' bed and went to continue getting dressed. Legolas stared after him for a moment but then he, too, rose and prepared for the dangerous road ahead. Gimli looked up at them and let himself stare at their distinct beauty—the muscular presence of Aragorn, stern and proud, a light in the dark; and Legolas, like a stag, lithe, swift and strong, his piercing eyes suddenly unreadable. Standing together in the little room, Man matched Elf in height to the inch.

Éowyn had not slept that night—she spent it seated on the sill of the wide window in her room. The shutters were thrown open even though the nights now became very cold as they neared dawn. She did not feel the cold this time.

She didn't leave her room until just before the sun showed itself. At last when she saw the color of the sky softening she had come to her final decision. With light quick steps as silent as a hunter's, she had fled outside into the cold air. A horse snorted as she ran by, but it recognized her scent and went back to its standing sleep. Like a ghost she passed through the courtyard, swift and silent, and came at last to the armory.

Legolas, Aragorn and Gimli were the first up. Aragorn stepped out into the morning light that now clearly lit the open hall and went to awaken his brethren. Gimli took out his long pipe and sat on the steps of the dais, puffing away absent-mindedly. Legolas stood beside him silent as stone. He had stood there with Éowyn the night before.

He stared out into the valley, suddenly harsh in its brightness under the early sun, tying on his armguards without needing to look. He had laced them in place for many thousands of years. He observed Rohan's wide stillness and marveled at the contrast between the open land of the horsemen and the crowded, primeval forest of his homeland. A short, soft metallic sound caught his ear—it was too soft to be picked up by Gimli. He looked to its source out of the corner of his eye. Éowyn was standing in the shadows of the hall, half-hidden behind one of the columns. Her expression was unreadable. Something near her neck was shining. She backed into the shadows as he approached. Legolas tugged on the other armguard and laced it as he walked to her. His fingers lost their pattern as he realized what she wore.

She wore the glimmering mail shirt she had worn when she had hidden among the ranks to join the Battle of Helm's Deep, yet this time she made no effort to hide her female shape beneath its silver rings. She wore it proudly. Her breast shown as the dim light hit it—she had not put on the over-tunic. She sparkled as though she were bathed in starlight, dressed in the mail of Elbereth, a servant of the Star Host. Her slender limbs shone silver, her hair bright gold against her collar. Her riding cloak was tucked under her arm, a short sword in one hand.

Legolas stared at the sword as though it was the herald of his demise. Then he found his breath and looked into Éowyn's face. Her eyes were smiling. Her mouth was not.

"Don't do this," he said.

"Come with me."

He followed her outside to the hidden balcony where they had stood together the day before. The sun danced off her shining form and blinded him.

"I'm going with you," she said. Then she let herself smile.

And for a moment, Legolas' heart was singing. He took the idea of not being parted from her and held it in his hands—he treasured it and dreamt of it, taking the moment and letting it ride for many years in one instant. It was an impossible joy: to ride with her to whatever lay ahead. He would never leave her side. He would mow down rows of the enemy and then turn to her to see her smiling proudly. He would kneel before her, ask her to bless his knives with her glance, then use them to carve a path before her feet. They would ride together into the doom the Valar had wrought for them, beautiful and terrible, blindingly resilient, plunging headfirst into the storm. They would face anything.

But this was, of course, nothing more than a shining dream—a vision of greatness and heraldic destiny that they were never meant to see. The truth was matte as marshland and it killed the ecstasy he had so quickly conceived and made his words lack prominence.

"You can't."

Her smile did not die—it spread. "No. But I am."

The laughter in her eyes was worse than anything else she could have said or done. He set his jaw. "You are not coming."

She let him see her smile fade. Her eyes bore into him, but the smile washed away like patterns on a seashore. Her hands fell—it was all she could do to keep her sword from slipping through her fingers to clatter on the ground. He stared back, drawn up to his impressive full height, straight and tall, his eyes frightfully cold. She felt like a child next to him, and her tone let it show.

"I must go on with you," she said, almost yelling.

"You will not. You will not because you _cannot_."

"You cannot tell me what to do."

"You have a duty to your people, Éowyn; I have a duty toward mine." He softened his tone a little, but the white fire still flickered in his eyes. He was a prince. He would have her remember it. "We each have our responsibilities. I will fulfill my own."

"Rules you mean?" She was getting at something. She was challenging him.

"Yes. In a sense."

She narrowed her eyes. "There are some laws that none should break, Legolas. We cannot live without water, we cannot breathe without air, and indeed," she paused for effect, "We cannot love each other."

Legolas froze. Fear seized him in a severe instant, and he turned lost eyes upon her—was she saying goodbye? But Éowyn's face was all marble again. She went on, "It's not possible. It's against all things in our world. You and I are not meant to be." She looked up at him again, staring him straight in the eye, hopeless but not afraid. The marble was shattering. "But we are."

Without a word, he reached out and pulled her to him, crushing her against his chest. She pulled away with equal force. She was strong, but he was stronger. One arm he used to bind her to his torso, and the other he used to tilt her face toward his. Slowly and tenderly, he brought his mouth to hers and kissed her. For a moment she fought him, but then she too was lost.

When their lips parted, Legolas whispered: "I wonder...were we born to this as well?"

"Yes," she whispered back. Her hands knotted in the folds of his gray Lórien cloak that hung down his back. Her face she pressed against his collarbone. "If you love me, you will not go," she whispered, but her voice echoed in his head. His heart twisted with sorrow.

"That's not fair. Do not do this to me, Éowyn," he said, equally quiet. He held her closer still, his hands seeking her warmth beneath the cold rings. "It is not in your nature to be so cruel. I go without fear, but not without regret. And I ask nothing of you."

"You're throwing your life away. By taking this road, you are throwing it _away_." Legolas did not answer her or even look at her, his arms loosening ever slightly around her. She went on, gripping him harder than ever. "You have such a gift, a life that cannot end—"

He looked at her, his eyes narrowed. "If it's a gift, then I could give it away." Now it was Éowyn's turn not to answer. His tone was frightening. He didn't seem human at all. He was like a force of nature, a tidal wave, bent over her. "And even if I could...would _you_ take it?"

No, she realized, she did not think she would. It astounded her. And then Éowyn realized as an afterthought that she was trying hard not to cry. She never cried. She had not cried since she was a child. But here—here he had made her want to scream with tears. He was ripping her apart, slowly and keenly as a blade wrought of ice, a snow-tipped spear through her heart. Yet he looked at her helplessly innocent. All of his dreadful, distinctly immortal malice was gone. He looked at her, as lost as she was, as alone.

He did not expect her to reply as she did. The low beauty of her voice—a flickering alto it would have been in song, humanly perfect—shocked him.

"Go then, Legolas Greenleaf. But try to remember Éowyn who has been left behind."

Her voice faltered, overwhelmed with her tears. Her breath became labored and short and a single drop, then another, slid down her face. He watched, amazed. She looked down, ashamed. Her hands were fists.

He had never seen her cry.

Legolas took in the sight as one would absorb a great work of art. He did not dare to speak, nor even blink. He was left breathless and empty and yet drenched with wonder. Very slowly he brought up his hand, resting it on the warm edge of her face, and slid his thumb over her cheek. The tear was wiped away. It was too much for her and she collapsed against him again, her fingers digging into his arms. There were too many tears for him to catch.

He held her for a long time, simply content to feel her heartbeat echoing his own. Yet his was deeper: more constant, it seemed. _She is mortal_, his mind whispered. _She is mortal. She is not yours to have. She is not for one such as yourself_. Would she break in his arms? His fingers found a strand of her hair, smooth as glass, and he toyed with it absentmindedly. He realized that, though great evil lay before him, at this moment he was utterly content. He did not care for the next dawn.

"The world is coming to pieces," she said softly. Her voice was not as steady as it usually was. "Madness has taken a hold of all whom I love—they go out to die and leave me here to wither in despair." She exhaled. "I have been alone for so long. I do not wish to be alone again."

Legolas gripped her harder. "We are all alone now. We stand on the brink."

Éowyn's breath was shallow, her eyes wide. "You will fall to darkness," she whispered in a frightening voice, her face pressed against his breast, "and I will not be there to defend you, or to die by your side."

He shut his eyes and leaned his chin upon her head.

"Let me fall. Let _that _be the greatest evil ahead, if it lies ahead indeed," he whispered back. And his voice was sure. "Let me fall, Éowyn." He stopped only a moment to draw in a ragged breath. "Either way you will have to let me go. Let me fade away as I must fade. That is the one clear path before me. It opens before all my people." Sadness mingled with his joy—the weight made him want to collapse. "But I would fall fighting for you. Let me fall."

They stood plaited together on the balcony. The sun lit them as was its duty and brought some warmth to their flesh though all the world was cold. His hands on her back felt the metal of the countless rings that made up the mail that covered her. It was then he noticed just how full of despair he actually turned out to be. Very tightly he held her, one last time, and she responded and pulled him hard to her. Then somehow he untangled himself from her warm, loving form and went to join the others. Something inside him was tearing in two. He would not look back at her as he walked away.

Éowyn let the shocked stares fall all over her as she strode through the Great Hall of Meduseld to bid the riders farewell. She sparkled like a diamond, a warrior goddess of terrible beauty, though in her face there was a great, unyielding sadness. Her golden hair was free in the slow valley breeze. Her face, for all its sorrow, was set and sure. In her hands she held the Cup of Parting.

Outside in the main courtyard the Rangers were climbing their mounts, their gray hoods thrown over their heads even though the sun was rising. At their head was Aragorn, tightening the bridle on Hasufel's downy snout. Her eyes fixed on him—she did not look to find the Elf.

Aragorn heard the murmur of the Rangers first. He turned to her as she approached. In one sweeping glance he took in the chain mail, the scabbard and sword, the riding cloak thrown over one shoulder to reveal the gleaming form beneath. Éowyn walked to him without breaking eye contact, though inside her heart was thundering, thinking of the night before. She bent her head and offered up the brilliant cup, her smooth hands steady.

A hush fell over the Gray Company, and as she spoke she felt keen eyes upon her. She did not need to guess whom they belonged to. Aragorn took the cup, familiar with the traditions of Rohan, and drank its cool draught, never taking his eyes off her. Even under Legolas' gaze, which seemed to sting in the dawn, she somehow found her voice.

"Aragorn, will you go?"

His face was unreadable, placing the cup back into her hands. "I will."

There was something about the simple conviction of his words that touched her, deep within. And though Aragorn spoke with great conviction and bravery, she sensed his doubt. His doubt, to her, was worse that fear. She brought the cup to her lips and finished its contents, then looked at him hard again.

"And you will not let me ride with you. As I have asked."

"No, my lady, for it is not my leave to give." Aragorn brought his hand to Hasufel's shimmering flank. "Every hour—every _minute_ we spend here hastens Sauron's victory. We must ride, Éowyn."

He called her by her name, not her title. She felt his friendship and his concern, fatherly at its best and protective at its worst. She was left speechless. In this one moment of uncertainty she felt the eyes upon her again, heard the hum of another's focus. The thought came to her, and she made the decision swiftly after.

_If he must see me weep_, she thought, _then he shall see me weep_.

She was surprised by how easily the tears came this time, but somehow she could not get them to fall straight away. It took a long moment. The entire Gray Company froze. At last the first drop fell, sliding slowly down her cheek. She knew that one must have hit Legolas point-blank, like one of his arrows—even so, she could not muster any joy for her small victory. Her tears shone in her eyes, reflected in Aragorn's. But as she sank to her knees, she realized that she was afraid for them all, and that her plea was very real—realer than she'd like it to be.

"I beg thee," she whispered, her voice breaking.

The only sound was the shifting horses and the wind rippling many cloaks. The ground was blurred beneath her. Why wasn't he coming for her? Why was he silent? Had the tears lost their power? She knew she was being defeated.

Aragorn leaned and raised her by her shoulders. "No, my lady." He could not bring himself to look at her glimmering face. He brought her quaking hand to his lips and kissed it. "I'm sorry."

Then Aragorn let Éowyn go and stepped away. When he turned his back on her she took it like a hit and stepped back. She was to be alone again. The Ranger mounted his horse with ease and gave the order to ride. The Elf was riding with him. She saw his back, draped with the magical cloak of the Elves far away, forgotten. Her tears had done nothing. In the end, she had known they would hold no power.

As they rode away, Legolas allowed himself to look back from the head of the column. He turned and met her eyes. She stood perfectly still. Only her hair fluttered in the wind. Rohan spread wide around them, mist clinging to the deep of the valley. The sky was pink and blue with dawn, and birds were waking everywhere.

He could still ride back.

Legolas shut his eyes against her gaze and turned away, facing the road that unfolded before him.

They had entered the land of the Dead, but Legolas had not known it from any sort of inborn sense. Rather he could tell they had passed some sort of threshold because the horses had started to stall and toss their heads, neighing shrilly. The Rangers were a grim and stalwart folk, but he noticed that more than one of them gripped their reins a little tighter than they had before, slate-colored eyes glancing left and right.

Beneath him Arod trembled from snout to tail, and his cloudy coat was glistening with a cold sweat. Legolas knotted his hands tighter in his mane and whispered one or two words of comfort. It did little. Astounded at the change, he glanced over his shoulder at Gimli. What little could be seen of the Dwarf's face under his unruly beard had blanched. His small dark eyes were wide and darted about at every movement in the ravine.

Legolas turned forward again. There were countless questions swimming in his mind. He let his consciousness travel, seeking any sort of answer about this place that was effecting everyone but himself. Aragorn's mind seemed sealed behind many broad walls. Even so, Legolas was not sure the Ranger would have been able to provide him with anything at the moment. Clearly the Elf could smell the uncertainty, almost stronger than the fear, and he found himself marveling at the ambiguity of their mission. The thought came swiftly and he banished it thus. He did not want to come to question that. Not now.

The trees around them grew tall and thick, blotting out so much of the gray light of day that it seemed twilight had fallen again. Legolas did not like these trees. Nor did he like the lines of stones that marked the trail—they seemed to stair, like unquiet statues. But he did not fear them. They simply troubled him, and told him the path they rode was not to be the easiest road taken.

At last one stone rose before them, mightier than the rest. Aragorn was at the head of the column, with Legolas, Gimli, the sons of Elrond and Halbarad close behind. Suddenly, as Aragorn rounded the stone, Hasufel whinnied and reared. Almost at the same time, Arod started to stamp. Legolas pressed his hand onto his horse's neck and whispered the phrase his father had taught him. Always it had managed to calm any unbroken horse—but now, it did little. They were forced to dismount and lead the horses round the bend.

The gateway to the mountain was called the Dark Door. Above it Legolas could barely make out the rustic carvings of some tongue of Man, more figures than words. He turned to Aragorn to see if he could read them. But Aragorn's face startled him. For the first time in all his years of knowing the Ranger, Legolas saw pure fear.

"This is an evil door," Halbarad said to no one in particular. "My death lies beyond it."

Aragorn turned to his friend but said nothing.

"I will pass," Halbarad went on, very quietly, "Nonetheless. But no horse will enter."

"We need the horses." Aragorn spoke for the first time. His throat was dry and made his words sound strange. "There is a long road ahead of us on the other side." He tugged Hasufel's reins. As if in response to his rider's words, the horse would not budge. But Aragorn gave one mighty pull and the beast stepped forward once, then again, until at a slow pace they entered the carven door and disappeared into the black.

Legolas turned to Arod. The horse's large black eyes, wild with fear, met his gaze and a flurry of questions seemed to follow. _I'm here_, Legolas told him, _and no harm will come to you while you are with me._ But Arod snorted and tossed his head away from Legolas' touch.

"The Rangers' horses may come soon enough," Elrohir said behind him. All the usual mirth in his tone was gone. "But that Rohan horse is going nowhere." Indeed the Gray Company had begun to move. Legolas heard Gimli's breath by his side.

"He'll come."

Legolas laid his hands over Arod's eyes and whispered again. _We will see daylight again, my friend. Wide fields and fresh grass and morning. Come with me._ Arod shivered from snout to tail once, then took a step. Then another. Legolas turned to Gimli and smiled. But the Dwarf was staring at the ground. Legolas walked Arod into the gateway. It wasn't until he had gone far into the gloom that he finally heard his friend's steps behind him. Gimli ran lightly and caught up to him. They walked side by side, silent as the grave.

Legolas felt none of his own fear, but the fear of his companions was overwhelming. It surrounded the company. He wondered if it would linger forever.

Elladan held a torch just behind him, but its light was of little use now. The walls of the cavern seemed to have fallen away; naught but empty blackness stared them down on all sides. Even Legolas' Elven eyes proved useless in the gloom, until at last he thought he saw something flicker in the dark. Soon enough the outline of a breastplate emerged from the looming shadows—a warrior lay in the dust, his finger bones still clawing at a seam in the rock wall: a door long forgotten by legend and song.

_This_, Legolas thought, _ is Death. This is what comes to mortals, one and all._

"The forgotten door," Elladan whispered.

As if in response Aragorn cleared his voice and called out into the fathomless mountain: "Keep your hoards and your secrets hidden in the Accursed Years! Speed only we ask. Let us pass, then come, for I summon you to the Stone of Erech!"

For a moment there was silence, save for Aragorn's fake echo bouncing off of distant walls. Soon the echo died and a pounding silence followed. Then there was a blast of cold air. Legolas clutched Arod's reins as all the torches blew out. There was a rustle and soft hubbub as horses and riders regrouped. But there was no light anywhere. Slowly they walked forward. Legolas measured his breath and took slow steps, leading Arod steadily. He couldn't locate Gimli anywhere.

At last he thought he could see. He looked up and far above he saw a tiny crevice—and stars! It was night again outside. Very little light peeked through into the heart of this, the greatest cavern, with sheer sides bordering a black, yawning chasm. Legolas was sick of being under the earth, but he kept his uneasiness to himself as he led his mount onward.

Suddenly Legolas felt a familiar shift in space and turned. In the dim light he barely saw Gimli's outline. The Dwarf stumbled. Even a creature born to caves was lost in this hard dark. Legolas caught him by the shoulder.

"Gimli, we can mount again."

He couldn't answer, but nodded, his bushy beard rustling against his mail shirt. Legolas helped him up, then mounted in front of him. They rode on again, Rangers on their horses, too, on into the dark. Gimli's breath was harsh on his back, so Legolas turned to speak to him. But before he could open his mouth he looked past his shoulder, past Elladan in the rear, and beyond.

An army rode just behind.

"The Dead are following," he whispered to no one in particular. Gimli stiffened, his breath short beneath the heavy curtain of his beard.

He narrowed his eyes and looked harder. It was like peering into the black depths of a clear, still lake. The figures shifted in and out of the gloom, their supernatural horses snorting silently. Banners hung in tatters. Spears shone in the black.

"Yes." That was Elladan, his voice more lilting than that of any other rider, even more so than his twin's. "The Dead ride behind." If a voice could smile, his did just then. "They have been summoned."

Legolas looked still. _This_, he thought, suddenly unsure, _is Death?_ And despite himself he was thinking of Éowyn again. This was her fate. Legolas turned away from the visions that followed, but he couldn't get the thought out of his head. Was this what became of Men? Or was this just one way for their story to end?

The ravine opened, and they saw the night again. Far away Men's homes twinkled, but Legolas wondered if anyone else could see them. The moon was cold in the sky, and everything looked ghostly now. He urged Arod forward until he and Gimli were in stride with Aragorn.

"The Stone of Erech is near," Aragorn said, still looking ahead.

"And what will the Stone bring?" Legolas asked.

"We will see. We will ask them."

Gimli sucked in another tight breath.

They rode down into the land, and the lights in the tiny houses went out. Legolas thought he heard the cries of people. He thought he heard someone shout, "The King of the Dead is upon us!" Aragorn looked the part, his already stone-set face white in the night air, his gray eyes blank with determination. He stared ahead at the hill that rose before them. At its peak Legolas saw a huge black globe, as tall as a Man, half buried in the earth. _The Stone of Erech, _he realized. The Rangers ascended the hill and dismounted by the globe. It shone as if newly polished, but Legolas could not see his reflection in it, nor the reflection of anyone in the company.

Elrohir stepped forward and drew from the folds of his cloak a silver horn. It was carved with Númenorean ruins that Legolas did not recognize. They looked older than any he had encountered before. Aragorn held out his hand, and his half-brother set it inside. The Ranger's long fingers curled around it, and he held it for a moment as though lost in thought. Then Aragorn brought the horn to his lips and blew it once.

As Legolas stood on the hill he knew he heard answering horns from somewhere in the night.

Then the army was visible. It's number was uncountable in the darkness, but they encircled the hill and the Gray Company, outnumbering them many times over. They seemed to take stronger form in the moonlight. Legolas saw they were as decaying corpses—great chunks of their faces missing, the hollows of their eyes filled with an eerie light. Now Legolas felt a wave of unease stronger than the others, but still he couldn't grasp fear. Nothing about this was familiar. Nothing was remotely Elven. The cold wind came back, and blew Legolas' hood from his head. He stared at the phantoms, who in turn stared back.

"Oathbreakers!" Aragorn's voiced shattered the silence. "Why have ye come?"

Silence followed. One dead warrior seemed to be looking at Legolas with particular intensity. He stared back, unafraid. His hand went to the hilt of his knife, as if it could do anything against the Dead.

Then a voice came, and Legolas thought he felt it rather than heard it, for it seemed to come from within himself, from his lungs and his heart, and even his blood.

"To fulfill our oath," it said, "and have peace."

Legolas turned to Aragorn.

"The hour is come at last. I go to Pelargir upon the Anduin, and ye shall come after me. When all this land is clean of the servants of Sauron, I will hold your oath fulfilled."

The earth seemed to stir, and the ghosts trembled around them. A humming filled the night. But Aragorn stepped forward and yelled, "For I am Elessar, the heir of Isildur of Gondor!"

It was always wonderful to hear Aragorn name himself. Every soul in the company lifted. The Dead looked stunned, uneasy, yet deeply respectful. But then the night came down with silence again. Legolas looked back at the Dead, but they seemed to melt into the dark. Still he knew they watched and waited as the Gray Company made camp in the shadow of the Stone.

Dawn came somehow, though Legolas doubted it would. All night he had tried to dream of Éowyn, being the only among the company who could have found rest on the Hill of Erech. But she seemed lost in his mind—only he found winding halls and empty stairs. He ran through countless starlit fields, plunged into rivers and forests. The whole world seemed empty and he was alone. When the sun rose he rose with it, fascinated by the power of the Shadow Host all around them though light was in the sky. He mounted at Aragorn's word, and Gimli seemed his old self as they took off. They thundered down the hill and into Lamedon. They passed empty villages, where people had left for the war or because of the onslaught of the King of the Dead.

But there was no dawn the next day. There were stars, yes, but they became dimmer and dimmer as they rode toward Minas Tirith and the storm of Sauron. He knew a battle lay ahead that was to be greater than any he had ever fought. And he knew it was likely he would fall in it. Yet somehow even that thought did not make him afraid. The warning of Galadriel was nothing. He had seen Death. He could face it again and again.

Legolas let himself look back one more time. He was astounded by the swiftness of the phantoms. Some even overtook riders, flowing over them like cool breaths. He felt his heart lift and he too smiled. Coolness flowed over him, whispers sounded in his ears. Hundreds of years worth of stories drifted past. In the sea of death, the Elf and his kinsmen relished within what he came to realize was a smoldering sense of pride for Aragorn. Dead Men went by as the Living drove them, and Legolas knew he was apart of something great. Even if she was far away, and safe as she could be. Even if he was alone.

The Dead whispered and washed by. Legolas turned ahead and took in a deep breath. He wanted to spread his arms wide to feel the numbing cool. He had seen at least a part of Death, and smiled.

-Fin-

Continued in...Chapter 20! Dernhelm Sets Out

(This is my only Éowyn-only chapter—that is, we leave Legolas for a while and focus solely on Éowyn as we focused solely on Legolas in the first chapters of this story. Don't worry: he's coming back strong in Chapter 21)

A preview of the next chapter is available at the Leaf Storm fanlisting (link in my author profile).

Now please review!


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